


Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Canon - Solves frequent reader complaint, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - OOC to good purpose, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Fellowship of the Ring, Humor, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Joy, Plot - Surprising reversals, Subjects - Animals, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Geography, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Politics, War of the Ring, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Experimental, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2002-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:52:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 130,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4212147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two<br/>months. Let them not be accused of "lounging around."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Disagreeable Characters

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

**A/N:**  
It is assumed you have some knowledge of The Hobbit storyline. The use of ‘ ’ coupled with italics denotes character thought.  
  
*******  
  


Glóin shifted against the trees whose boughs he sat beneath, feeling the rough bark rub against his back. Sunlight played upon his face as the tree’s leaves rustled in the soft afternoon breeze. Closing his eyes momentarily, the Dwarf inhaled deeply on his wooden pipe and absent-mindedly stroked his beard. To the casual observer, it would appear that the Dwarf was merely enjoying the serenity of the day. That was, however, far from the truth. In reality, the stout hearted descendent of Durin was quite oblivious to the beauty surrounding him. 

In fact, the Dwarf was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he did not even notice the rather blatant glances of disgust he received from the occasionally passing Elf. Normally, Glóin returned such looks with a glare that could crumble the very caverns above Kheled-zâram itself, but today far more pressing matters weighed upon his mind. 

_‘It is not that I do not wish him to go,’_ mused Glóin as he tapped the pipe against his chin, _‘it is just that… Mahal forbid, I am concerned for him. There. I’ve admitted it.’_

With a slightly embarrassed chuckle, the Dwarf crossed his arms over his chest and shifted against the tree yet again. _‘You know, I do believe he gets that adventurous side from me. Certainly not from Dila—she never even felt the urge to walk above ground. If anything,’_ thought Glóin ruefully, _‘it was her temper he inherited.’_

The elder Dwarf paused midway between lifting the pipe to his lips and winced. Dwarves were, as a whole, notorious for their temper. Gimli’s mother Dila was no exception. More than once had Glóin been upon the receiving end of the “lady’s” colorful side. Absentmindedly he reached up and touched the small scar that ran down his left temple, just above the hairline. Recalling a rather vicious incident involving a swiped apple, a chair, and a cold stone floor, Glóin winced yet again. _‘Who knows,’_ he thought, _‘perhaps that temper may work to his advantage should he meet any disagreeable characters.’_

At the thought of “disagreeable characters,” Glóin furrowed his brow, for it was such a “disagreeable character” that had lead him to seek solace beneath the trees and contemplate his son’s upcoming departure. Taking in another draw of his pipe, Glóin allowed his mind to wander back to the previous days’ happenings. 

* * * 

As he sat at the council gathering, his eyes flickered to and fro among the other attendees. To his right, past Gimli and Barin, sat a stocky dark-haired Man. The man (Boromir was his name?) looked as though he felt very out of place. To this Glóin and the rest of the Dwarves could sympathize with, for they felt equally uncomfortable. At Glóin’s left sat the knowledgeable wizard Gandalf, and next to him there was a hobbit. _‘Frodo Baggins, if I am correct,’_ he thought. _‘I wonder how much of Bilbo has rubbed off on the boy.’_

Glóin’s eyes grazed beyond the hobbit to what appeared to be another Man. This man was not, however, quite as stocky as the other. Worn and rugged he seemed, yet with a slightly Elvish air about him. He had an aura which bespoke knowledge and nobility, and his grey eyes surveyed the gathering Council with an attentive ease. Beyond the man sat Lord Elrond himself and many other Elves. 

_‘Let me see,’_ thought Glóin, _‘That would be Glorfindel to Lord Elrond’s left. And the one to his right is…? Bah, they’re all Elves—what do I care? Probably named after some star or tree. Valar help me to ever remember which is called “Blue Star,” “Moon Star,” “Star Dawn,” “Tree,” “Plant,” or whatever ridiculous names they come up with. At least I know which one is Elrond.’_

He quickly scanned the rest of the council—which consisted entirely of Elves. It was going to be a long meeting. Glóin sighed and settled back into his chair as he glanced around the circle one last time. He suddenly found his eyes resting upon one of the Elves who sat across from him. Unease stole across the descendent of Durin and rose in the pit of his stomach. Why did that Elf look so familiar? 

Glóin stared at the Elf. Fair of face and tall he was—as all Elves are apt to be. Yet there was something unsettlingly. . . familiar about this one. _‘I know I have not seen him before!’_ thought the Dwarf furiously. _‘And he is far too young to have fought in any of the great wars. Yet, I swear I have seen him somewhere!’_

The object of Glóin’s scrutiny, sensing the other’s rather intense stare, suddenly stopped conversing with his companions and lifted his eyes to meet those of the Dwarf. Much to his dismay, Glóin suddenly found himself locked in an unnerving Elven gaze. The Elf’s eyes quickly flashed from curiosity to that of wary irritation and the embarrassment of being stared at by a Dwarf. Glóin finally managed to tear his eyes away from the Elf’s bright, piercing ones and sat, dumbfounded. Try as he might, the Dwarf simply could not recall where he had seen the face before. 

When all those who had been called to Council (and, in the case of one Samwise Gamgee, those who had not) were present, formal introductions were made. 

“Legolas Greenleaf, son of King Thranduil of the Woodland realm of Mirkwood.” 

So great was the shock of poor Glóin that his would-be bellow of rage at the words “son of King Thranduil” was instead reduced to a strangled, high-pitched scream. 

Oh yes, it was going to be a very long meeting indeed. 


	2. THIS is the Fate of Middle-earth?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

"You were correct, Lord Elrond. Frodo has indeed chosen to carry the Ring." 

Unsurprised, Elrond drew is attention away from the land below and turned to acknowledge the speaker. “Ah, Mithrandir. I was wondering when you would seek me out.” The Elf lord spoke quietly as he leaned against the balcony railing. “I am sorry to see the young hobbit so burdened, yet there is nothing we may do to ease this, save offer him the aid and protection of the Fellowship. You know this as well as I do.” 

Gandalf walked up to the balcony ledge and placed one hand on the railing. Closing his eyes, he gripped his staff tightly and inhaled deeply. Elrond turned outward towards the land as well, and the two stood for a time, shoulder-to-shoulder in contemplative silence. 

The wizard’s light chuckle caused Elrond to cock his head and regard his companion curiously. “We speak of the fall of Middle-earth,” he stated with raised eyebrows, “and yet the wise Mithrandir laughs as though the journey he is about to partake upon is a mere frolic through the trees? Forgive me, but I seemed to have missed the apparent humor of the situation.” 

Gandalf opened his eyes and continued to chuckle. “No, no, my old friend. It is I who must be forgiven. I was just imagining the look that crossed Glóin’s face when young Legolas was introduced to Council.” 

The usually stoic face of the elf lord threatened to break. “Indeed. . . I had not realized that Dwarves were capable of. . . _squeaking_.” 

Looming danger momentarily forgotten, the wizard and Elf lord broke out into hearty laughter. “Still, I must speak with Glóin,” said Elrond when they had regained composure. “I would not have him placing any more prejudices in the head of his son than he already has. Elves and Dwarves do not see eye to eye as it is, and the history between Glóin and Thranduil will only serve to make things more difficult for Legolas and Gimli. I fear any advice imparted to Gimli from his father may only reinforce this.” 

“Have you yet to inform Thranduil of his son’s errand?” asked Gandalf as the two exited the balcony and entered the library of the Homely House. 

“The rest of the Mirkwood party will depart this morning. I expect it will take several weeks before they reach the kingdom.” 

“Mmmm,” murmured Gandalf thoughtfully as the two departed from the library. “Or perhaps I should have asked: have you informed Thranduil of his son’s traveling companions?” 

Elrond grimaced as he gracefully closed the library doors behind him. “You know very well of his thoughts on Legolas’ friendship with Aragorn. While Thranduil recognizes Aragorn’s legitimacy, he is still rather displeased by his son’s loyalty to a mortal—particularly one from the line of Isildur. And I dare say he views you as a rather poor influence as well. It goes against my better judgment to inform him that Legolas is not only traveling with the two of you, but Gimli son of Glóin of the Lonely Mountain, among others.” 

Gandalf stopped abruptly. “I, a poor influence?” The wizard snorted indignantly. “Why, that is the most utterly ridiculous—” 

“Mithrandir,” interrupted Elrond dryly, for he had not missed the twinkle in the wizard’s eye, “You are _notorious_ for your dalliances in others’ affairs. Need I remind you of one Bilbo Baggins? After your instigation of that incident, it is no wonder Thranduil is so wary of you.” 

“Notorious, indeed!” The wizard sniffed in mock righteousness. “And as for instigating, my ancient friend, wizards do not instigate. We simply offer priceless guidance to those who have lost their way.” 

Had the two still been in the library, Elrond would have found great difficulty in restraining his desire to throw a large book at the irrepressible wizard’s head. Luckily for Gandalf, the library was some distance behind them now, and there were no other heavy (and possibly quite painful) objects within the Elf lord’s reach. 

“Come,” Elrond sighed in exasperation, “let us depart. You have a frightened hobbit to console and I must speak with an irate Dwarf.” 

* * * 

The youngest son of Thranduil hummed softly to himself as he nocked another arrow to his bow. Unlike those of Mirkwood, the training grounds of Imladris were brighter and more spacious. Legolas’ woodland heritage had given him a natural affinity for the densely-packed forests of Mirkwood, yet even he had to admit that Imladris was immensely appealing. 

THWACK! The arrow hit the target with deadly accuracy obtained from countless years of training. Legolas quickly drew another and continued peppering the target with well-practiced ease. As his body mechanically nocked, drew, aimed, and fired, he allowed his mind to wander. 

_‘Ah, Mirkwood,’_ he sighed. _‘Far too long have you been wrapped in a cloak of darkness and evil, and my heart aches at the very thought of it!’_

His quiver now empty, the young Elf went to retrieve his arrows. As he tugged at a particularly stubborn arrow, his thoughts suddenly drifted to his father. He frowned. 

He had been so caught up in the previous days’ events that he had given no thought to what his father’s reactions might be. The young prince had been shocked and flattered when Lord Elrond himself had requested that he join the Fellowship. Thinking back, Legolas was still unsure of the Elf lord’s reasoning. Though not lacking in battle experience (for he had the many dark creatures of Mirkwood to thank for that), he was certainly not as experienced as those who had faced Sauron in the Last Alliance. Rather, he had expected one of the great Noldor lords still remaining in Middle-earth, such as Glorfindel, to be chosen. And yet, here he was, requested to represent the entire race of Elves in a quest which would quite possibly take him to the fiery pits of Mt. Doom itself. 

An image of the Fellowship flashed before his eyes. There was Aragorn and Gandalf, both of whom Legolas knew well and trusted completely. Then there was Boromir, the all-too-human man of Gondor. . . Wide-eyed Frodo, loyal Sam, naively brave Merry and Pippin. . . that Dwarf. . . This was the fate of Middle-earth. 

Feeling suddenly ill as the full realization of what he was about to embark upon set in, Legolas sat down abruptly. 

“O may Elbereth help us!” he murmured. “What have I gotten myself into?” 

* * * 

Gandalf smiled to himself as he followed the sound of happily chattering hobbit voices. Stepping around a rather portly bush, he was rewarded with the sight of Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, and Bilbo all seated around a picnic consisting entirely of mushrooms. 

“This, my friends,” said Merry as he carefully selected a particularly large mushroom and held it up to the autumn sunlight, “is no mere mushroom. Nay, it is a work of art! Behold, a masterpiece in all its glory that—” 

“—would be admired much better were it in my stomach,” finished Pippin. 

Merry glared at him. “Get your own mushroom, you uncultured monster.” 

“Hullo, Gandalf!” Frodo called out cheerfully as the wizard approached. 

“Would you care to join us, my dear friend? Here, have a mushroom.” Bilbo dug through the overflowing basket and offered a wrinkled grey mushroom cap. 

Gandalf smiled and shook his head. “No thank you, Bilbo. I leave the mushrooms to you. I will, however, join you.” The wizard carefully leaned his staff against a slim young birch tree and sat down next to Bilbo. 

“So, Samwise Gamgee,” started Bilbo with a knowing grin. “Do be so kind as to tell me of this beautiful Rosie Cotton whom has supposedly stolen your heart.” 

“I-I-I don’t know what you mean!” stammered the embarrassed hobbit. His eyes darted about furtively as he desperately tried to ignore the large grins on the faces of his companions. 

“Ooooh, you mean Rosie COTTON?” teased Merry. “Well, I shall tell you of the lovely maiden who has our Sam so smitten.” 

“I am not. . .” Sam mumbled weakly. 

Much to Sam’s chagrin, Merry proceeded to stand up and very animatedly discuss the agreeable qualities of the maiden in question. 

“Rosie Cotton,” sighed Merry, clasping his hands together and fluttering his eyelids. “She has hair that shines as if it were rays of sunlight. And her lips, why, they are as red as the autumn leaves of Rivendell. . .” 

Sam sighed. In truth, he missed Rosie quite a bit. And, as far as his very humble opinion was concerned, Merry’s exaggerated narrative of her was in actuality very truthful. 

“. . .and her eyes! Oh, her eyes!” continued Merry. “They are sparkling pools of brown. As brown as—eh? What was that, Sam?” 

“Blue,” murmured Sam dreamily. “They’re blue. Not brown. Blue like the morning glories that--” 

He stopped abruptly. “But. . . you already knew that, didn’t you?” he concluded with narrowed eyes. Merry’s grin widened. Pippin covered his mouth with his hands in a desperate attempt to stifle his snickering. 

“I knew it!” laughed Frodo. “Come on, dear Sam. There’s no harm in admitting it. Rosie’s wonderful!” 

Sam blushed. 

“He’s blushing!” shouted Pippin triumphantly. 

“I am not!” exclaimed Sam, his blush only deepening. 

“Then tell me, Master Gamgee,” said Merry, thoroughly enjoying the other’s discomfort, “do you always turn this shade of red in the autumn?” 

“Perhaps he changes with the trees,” added Pippin. 

It was all too much for the love-struck Sam to bear. 

“Yes! Yes I do!” he flustered. “And if you’re not careful, I’ll hurt you like an autumn tree, too!” 

Pippin rolled his eyes. “Sam, you dolt, trees can’t—OUCH!” 

“I’m an Elvish autumn tree! So take that!” roared the hobbit. “And that! And THAT!” 

Now, it is neither polite nor civilized to smack one’s own brethren with a large stick, but unfortunately for the beleaguered Merry and Pippin, Sam the Autumn Elvish Tree disregarded this courtesy and attacked in full-fledged wrath. 

After receiving several welts apiece, the two hobbits finally managed to tackle Sam and wrestle the stick away from his grasp. 

Frodo sat comfortably on the grass and enjoyed the spectacle as it unfolded. They were good companions, this Frodo knew. They had demanded to follow him, no matter where the end may take them. Frodo sighed inwardly and watched as the three hobbits tumbled amongst the fallen leaves. He would have to watch over them. 

A leaf lazily floated downward and landed softly in his hair. He reached up and pulled it out, but instead of casting it aside, Frodo cupped the leaf in his hands and stared at it. Perhaps it was the elven nature of the leaf—having fallen from a tree of Rivendell, or perhaps it was that he was weary from Council, but as he stared at the fragile thing, it seemed to Frodo that its color radiated onto his hands. It was a deep crimson. The color of blood. 

“Frodo?” 

Startled, Frodo blinked and looked up. Gandalf and Bilbo regarded him with concern. 

“Sorry,” he began lamely. “I just. . . let’s go inside, shall we?” 

“Very well,” answered Bilbo, giving him one last glance. “Merry, Sam, Pippin! Come along, my boys. We’ve had enough of you rolling about in the dirt as though you were swine.” 

The disheveled trio picked themselves up off the ground and cheerfully began collecting the remains of the picnic. Laughing and joking, they made their way inside. Bilbo and Gandalf followed. 

Somewhat dazed, Frodo stood up and looked after his companions. 

“Frodo,” spoke Gandalf gently, “Let it go.” He placed a comforting hand upon the hobbit’s shoulder. “Let it go.” 

“Let what go?” asked the confused hobbit. 

Gandalf gave a slight nod towards the hobbit’s hands. Frodo looked down. He was still cupping the leaf. 

“But,” he began. It was silly, really. He couldn’t explain it, yet he did not want to let go of the leaf. It was so delicate. He wished to protect it, to keep it perfect and unmarred by time or change. 

“It fell of its own accord,” said the wizard. “It was destined to do so. You cannot stop fate, Frodo. Let it go.” 

Reluctantly, Frodo let the leaf fall. He looked at his hands and shivered. To him, they still bore the leaf’s crimson glow. 


	3. Laws of Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

**A/N** :  
I have taken some liberties here. In the movies, Legolas was said to be 2,000-something years old. Where did they come up with this number? I had always assumed that he was no older than 1,000. Then again, in the movie his character was a bit more reserved (I’m not complaining, it was Jackson’s interpretation of the book and therefore fully merited). Ah, yet another great debate regarding everyone’s favorite Elf. I didn’t even bother to touch the hair/eye color issue.

******* 

In true Elvish fashion, Legolas quickly gathered himself together and stood up. _'Yes,'_ he mused, _'Imladris is quite stunning.'_ A sense of energy radiated from every tree and blade of grass. This, coupled with the vibrant yellows, oranges and reds of the changing season, was overwhelming. The air hummed and throbbed with life. Legolas almost had mind to reach up into the air and grab a piece, for he doubted not that he would be able to do so. 

The Elf cast aside his weapons and walked to the center of the archery field. A careful inspection of the area revealed that he was completely alone and unobserved. Tilting his head upwards to face the sun, he began to sing. Somewhat hesitantly at first, but gradually louder as his self-consciousness faded and he gave in to the surging joie de vivre around him. 

Arms outstretched, Legolas began to gracefully dance and spin in circles. His fair voice rang clear and melodious across the grounds. He had not indulged in such childish behavior since his hundredth year, and to do so now with such utter abandon felt marvelous. 

With one last spin, Legolas threw himself to the ground and laughed. He closed his eyes and continued humming, bobbing his head and lightly drumming his fingers to the song’s rhythm. 

“Pardon me, Prince of Mirkwood,” interrupted a very amused voice, “but would you mind repeating that dance? I am afraid I seemed to have missed the last step.” 

Legolas bolted upright, thoroughly humiliated. 

* * * 

Glóin grunted as he struggled to his feet. Spending a majority of the day with his back against a tree trunk had not been wise. His body protested violently as he staggered forward. _‘Curse these elves and their trees,’_ he thought vehemently. Why couldn’t they simply build stone benches like any other sane being? 

For a moment, Glóin allowed himself the pleasure of visualizing Rivendell undergoing a proper Dwarvish renovation. He picked up a stone and tested its weight in his hand. Yes, there was good stone to be found here. If one were to uproot several of those troublesome trees. . . 

He cast a glance over his shoulder at the young tree he had been resting against. When he noticed Elrond absentmindedly stroking the tree’s leaves, he immediately dropped the stone and barely managed to swallow the oath that sprang to the tip of his tongue. 

“Greetings, Glóin of the Lonely Mountain,” said the Elf lord as he smiled and gave the tree an affectionate pat. 

“At your service, Lord Elrond,” muttered Glóin. It was unnerving the way Elves suddenly appeared, and the Dwarf was certain they took much pleasure in startling those who lacked the ability. 

Elrond, correctly guessing the Dwarf’s line of thought, held up a hand. “Peace, Glóin,” he laughed, “I did not mean to startle you. Forgive me.” 

Glóin blinked, somewhat surprised by the Elf lord’s intuition. “Nay,” he gruffly replied, “it is nothing. Do not trouble yourself.” 

Elrond smiled as he approached the Dwarf. “I hope you have found the Last Homely House to your liking.” 

“Excuse me, my Lord,” interrupted Glóin, “but I do not believe I would be mistaken in assuming you have a different reason for seeking me out, other than the discussion of Rivendell’s hospitality.” 

The Elf cocked an eyebrow at the Dwarf who boldly met his gaze. “Alas, you are correct,” confessed Elrond with a slight smile. “Indeed, I did not. Trust a Dwarf to immediately strike the heart of the matter.” 

Glóin stiffened slightly. “I mean that only in the most complimentary manner,” Elrond quickly added. He was rewarded with Glóin’s grunt of approval. 

“Come,” motioned Elrond, “let us walk along the garden paths before the light has faded completely. Have you yet to see Limulus Pond?” * 

“No,” admitted Glóin, wondering how their conversation had again meandered off-topic, “I have not.” 

* * * 

“Calm down, Legolas.” Elrohir laughed, greatly amused by the horrified look on the other’s face. “I shall tell no one that the Prince of Mirkwood behaves like a child when he thinks no one is watching.” 

In truth, Elrohir was quite glad to have witnessed Legolas acting as such. Legolas had a tendency to be more quiet and reserved than most, and Elrohir often wondered if it was due to his nature, or the effects of growing up in Mirkwood. Elrohir suspected the latter, for it was a belief (though not openly discussed) shared by many. 

Legolas fluidly got to his feet and smiled somewhat sheepishly at the dark-haired elf. “I was not aware you had engaged in spying, Elrohir.” 

“Normally, I do not. But I find you to be most entertaining,” retorted the son of Elrond. “And,” he added, “I wished to know whether you had reached a decision yet.” 

Legolas pursed his lips. Lord Elrond had ordered several scouting missions ere the Fellowship set off. The campaigns would each take at least a month to complete. 

“Nay, I have not yet decided,” answered Legolas. “Whither will you go?” 

“Down the Silverlode and beyond,” replied Elrohir with a heavy sigh. “Some will go north, past the springs of Hoarwell and into the Ettenmoors. Aragorn will be departing west with the Rangers. I believe they mean to go as far as Tharbad.” * 

Legolas nodded. 

“Of course,” continued Elrohir, “we need scouts to the east and south: into Mirkwood, or over the Dimrill Stair and eventually on to the Gladden Fields.”* He paused to glance at Legolas. “Your knowledge of Mirkwood is extensive. I am sure it would be of great advantage to us if you were to join that mission. And you would be able to inform your father of your journey.” 

In true Elven stoicism, Legolas attempted to keep his face void of any betraying emotion. Despite his valiant efforts, his minute flinch at the words “your father” did not escape Elrohir’s notice. This struck the son of Elrond as odd, but he wisely decided not to pursue the matter. 

“We shall hold council tomorrow morning and discuss the final details,” concluded Elrohir. “You will be present, I assume?” 

“Yes, yes, of course.” The younger elf nodded and absently waved a hand. “Lord Elrond informed me this afternoon.” 

Elrohir shaded his eyes and surveyed the archery grounds. The sun had begun to set, and elongated shadows began to dance among the grass. The field itself was bathed in a brilliant orange glow. At his side, Legolas had slipped into moody introspection. 

“Gather your arrows, my moody little friend,” teased Elrohir. “It grows dark—though I am not sure it is due primarily to the setting sun.” 

With mock indignation, Legolas stalked over to retrieve his bow and quiver. Turning, the prince grinned rather impishly at the dark-haired Elf lord. “Better to be moody than a grinning fool,” he retorted. “Does it not make you ill to walk around all day with that ridiculous look plastered upon your face?” 

And with that, he dashed off into the forest, Elrohir hard on his heels. 

* * * 

Aragorn had been searching fruitlessly for Boromir all day, and had yet to find him. He came to the edge of Limulus Pond and released a frustrated sigh. _‘I thought only Elves possessed the ability to disappear,’_ he thought wryly. 

Boromir did not strike Aragorn as the type to hide. If anything, the man of Gondor tended to be confrontational and bull-headed. On the other hand, Boromir had seemed extremely uncomfortable around so many Elves. Perhaps he decided to forgo this quest and had returned home. Aragorn shook his head viciously to dispel the thought. No, Boromir would not do such a thing. He was not the type. The situation was awkward enough, and wishful thinking would do nothing to help the matter. 

His ears caught the sounds of voices gradually moving towards the pond. Aragorn’s hopes faded as Glóin and Elrond came into view. No, he would not find the son of Denethor tonight. 

“I am not suggesting you forgive Thranduil for the grievances he has caused you,” Elrond was saying, “but do not let your anger take control. Please do not make the situation any more difficult.” 

“And how, Lord Elf, would you expect me to go about doing this?” snapped Glóin. 

“Glóin of the Lonely Mountain, you will support your son and let it be known that any acts of… _considerable vengeance…_ will NOT be tolerated.” Elrond’s words were not a suggestion. 

* * * 

Legolas tore through the forest’s branches. He cast a fleeting glance over his shoulder. Elrohir was faster than he had anticipated. 

_‘But not fast enough!’_ he thought with a grin. 

He raced onward and noticed a clearing up ahead. More concerned about the Elf lord chasing him, Legolas thought little of how “improperly” he was behaving. After all, one may only act so princely when being hunted by a son of Elrond. Not to mention that Legolas, in his younger years, had been tormented enough by his elder siblings to have a pretty fair idea of what Elrohir might do to him if he were caught. 

With a great leap, Legolas landed in the clearing. He quickly straightened, and suddenly found himself face-to-face with an extremely astonished Elrond and Glóin. 

“Lord Elrond! I—AAAIIIIII!!!!!!!” Elrohir, noticing only that his prey had ceased moving, lunged. 

Legolas was catapulted forward as Elrohir hit him from behind. Unfortunately, Glóin was standing directly in the path of motion. Legolas slammed into the Dwarf, and a resounding splash! echoed throughout the clearing as all three landed in Limulus Pond. 

******* 

_* Limulus Pond: Completely made it up. Scientific names make very good Middle-earth names. There are no Limulus living in the pond._

_* The Fellowship of the Ring: Book Two, Chapter Three ‘The Ring Goes South’_


	4. Just Add Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

The history of Middle-earth is richly spun with yarns of love, sorrow, treachery and heroism. But never, in all the Land’s ancient weavings, has an Elf been slain by the hand of a single Dwarf. 

Legolas Greenleaf—Sindar Elf, Prince of Mirkwood, and youngest son of Thranduil of the House of Oropher—was dangerously close to becoming the first. 

Limulus Pond was not very deep, yet it was nonetheless wet (as water tends to be). The two Elves and Dwarf found themselves coughing and gagging in a desperate attempt to dislodge water from their lungs. Pushing several strands of wet hair out of his face and tucking them behind his ear with a slender hand, Legolas guiltily regarded Glóin out of the corner of his eye. 

The Dwarf had gone strangely silent. Tiny rivulets of water were streaming down his face and beard, and he was covered in duckweed. Yet he made no move to wipe himself off. The setting sun did not help matters: her orange florescent rays reflected in Glóin’s eyes, making them glow in a most disturbing manner. 

It was said that the Dwarves were molded from the earth. And indeed, the sopping wet creature seething in the muck of Limulus Pond was reminiscent of such beginnings. Aragorn, however, (from his safe distance on the bank) highly doubted that they had been borne into the world so enraged. 

Lord Elrond recognized the danger of the situation immediately. Elrohir made move to stand up, but was stopped when his father held up a hand and shot him a warning glance. Legolas, for his part, had made no effort to rise as of yet, and continued to watch the stone-like Glóin warily. 

“Master Dwarf,” began Elrond as he cautiously approached the pond’s edge, “allow me to assist you out of the water.” 

Glóin slowly rotated his head and stared at the Elf lord’s out-stretched hand as though Elrond were offering him a snake. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally acquiesced and grabbed hold. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the trees, and Aragorn and Legolas both let out the breath of air they did not know they were holding. 

“What goes on here?” demanded a gruff voice as short, heavy footsteps marched towards the pond. 

Legolas resisted the urge to drown himself. Gimli, son of Gloin, could not have picked a worse time to make an appearance. 

* * * 

Contrary to Aragorn’s belief, Boromir was not hiding. At least that’s what he told himself. For two days now, the Man of Gondor had sought refuge in the vast library of Imladris. Oh, he would have much rather been exploring the outdoor wonders of the Elven kingdom, but the feeling of being constantly watched by Elven eyes had eroded his nerves. Three days ago, he noticed that he had developed a nervous twitch, and this discovery concerned him greatly. 

All in all, it was a pleasant library. Boromir supposed he would be enjoying it much more if he were a reader. That, however, was Faramir’s department. _‘I wonder what he would think if he were to see me now,’_ thought Boromir as he slowly paced down a shelved isle. It took him exactly fifty-eight paces to reach the end of the isle—Boromir had counted in one of his many moments of overpowering boredom. 

Turning sharply on his heel, he began to pace back down the isle when suddenly the library doors were flung open. Not wanting to face an Elf, Boromir quickly dropped onto all fours. 

_‘Oh good grief,’_ he berated himself furiously, _‘this is ridiculous. I am the son of Denethor! I am NOT some spineless child. Get up, you fool!’_

He had just resolved to stand up when he heard footsteps swiftly approaching. He quickly dropped back down. Muttering an oath, he punched himself in the left shoulder as it began to twitch violently. He wondered if he was going mad. 

“Aha! There you are!” Gandalf’s head poked around the corner of a shelf. There was an uncomfortable pause. “Son of Denethor, what in the name of Arda are you doing on the floor?” 

Boromir glanced up. The look on Gandalf’s face suggested that he was not the only one questioning his sanity. 

Clearing his throat, the man stood. “I was, ah, reading,” he offered, and seized the first book his hand landed on. “Ah, ahem, yes. Most fascinating. Elvish literature that is. Isn’t it? I mean, to say, if you enjoy that sort of thing—which I do, most definitely.” 

Boromir cringed has he heard the babble flowing from his mouth. He didn’t even know Elvish. If his sword had been unsheathed, he would have seriously considered impaling himself upon it. Inwardly, he groaned. 

“Oh,” was the only reply Gandalf could bring forth. There was another uncomfortable pause. 

Boromir thumbed through the book in his hands and attempted to regain some semblance of aristocracy. 

“Oh,” repeated Gandalf, suddenly recalling why he had been searching for the man. “Lord Elrond wishes to hear of your decision at the council meeting tomorrow morning.” 

“Decision?” asked Boromir, still trying to regain his composure. 

“Yes, my dear Man. You do recall the scouting missions, do you not?” 

“Ah, of course,” replied Boromir. “It had momentarily slipped my mind.” 

“Well, we shall have plenty of time to discuss the matter on the morrow,” said Gandalf. “In the mean time, there is quite a decadent feast awaiting us in the dining area.” The wizard smiled and patted his stomach as it growled. 

“It would be most rude of me to keep you—or your stomach—waiting,” laughed Boromir, relieved that the awkward moment had passed. Besides, the prospect of a good meal was enticing, even if it did mean being subject to the endless scrutiny of Elven gazes. 

Before they departed, Boromir admired the book one last time and flipped through a few more pages. “A marvelous book,” he stated lightly as he placed it upon a table. 

Gandalf nodded in agreement, deciding not to tell Boromir that he had been “reading” the book upside down. 

* * * 

“I repeat, what goes on here?” 

“Greetings, Son of Glóin,” said Elrond smoothly. “We seemed to have had a slight…accident. If you would be so kind as to escort your father back to his quarters, I’m sure you will find the servants more than willing to supply you with dry towels and such.” 

Gimli placed both hands on his hips and challengingly glared at the Elf lord. Elrond was reminded of a similar look Glóin had given him only a few hours earlier. 

“Come, boy,” muttered Gloin vehemently, “I shall inform you of this…accident… on our way back to the room.” And with that, the older Dwarf stomped over to his son, taking special care to glare at Legolas as he passed by. 

Elrond sighed as the two departed. 

“Congratulations, Legolas,” quipped Elrohir cheekily, “you certainly managed to make a mess of that one. Throwing Dwarves into ponds and behaving as a two hundred year…” He trailed off as Elrond turned to face him. 

“And speaking of acting one’s age,” began the exasperated Elf lord. Legolas was granted momentary satisfaction as he saw Elrohir cringe. “I do not even want to know of your motives for this display of foolishness. I am sure, my son, that you have much better things to do than to spend your time picking on those younger than yourself.” 

Elrohir’s normally soundless footsteps squelched as he stepped onto the bank. “But, my dear father,” he protested with a laugh, “if it were not for me, impudent youngsters such as Legolas and Aragorn would not have grown into the respectable warriors they are today.” 

Elrond rolled his eyes as Aragorn and Legolas groaned. “The feast is in an hour. I trust you will be dried and presentable by then?” 

Elrohir grinned has he wiped away the duckweed plastered on his face. “I should like to think this duckweed brings out the color of my eyes…” 

Aragorn snorted. “GO,” commanded Elrond. 

Legolas rung out his hair and grimaced as he stood on the bank. Aragorn had never seen his friend act in such an irresponsible manner and did not intend to let the issue be forgotten any time soon. 

“My friend, I did not know you were capable of—” Aragorn stopped short as Legolas looked him straight in the eye, pulled himself up to his full height, and attempted to straighten his soaked tunic with a forceful tug. 

“Heir of Isildur,” began the Elf with an impressive amount of superiority considering how ridiculous he appeared, “I would like to remind you that in my present condition, it would not be below my severely-depleted dignity to shove you into this pond.” 

Aragorn wisely changed the subject. 

* * * 

The two chatted merrily as they meandered back to the halls of Rivendell. Had Aragorn been less amused by Legolas’ situation, and had Legolas not been so preoccupied with the uncomfortable feeling of wet clothes, both might have noticed one very angry Dwarf lying in wait among the deepening shadows of the evening. 

_* * *_

Gimli’s anger boiled as the fair Elf approached. It was a shame to bring Aragorn into this mess, yet the Elf must pay for the insult Gimli’s father had received. Gimli had heard of the countless cruelties inflicted by Thranduil, and he was not about to let the king’s brat escape so easily. As far as he was concerned, the Elf had it coming. 

His fist closed around a good-sized rock. He slowly crept out of the underbrush, and throwing the rock with all the strength he could muster, Gimli let out a terrific bellow of rage. 

Just as he hoped, the Elf spun around to face his attacker. 

* * * 

A cry of attack from the rear startled Aragorn and Legolas from their light-hearted conversation. Both whirled around to face their opponent. 

Under normal circumstances, Legolas would have been able to avoid the missile, yet Gimli had foreseen this and purposely yelled after the rock was launched. 

_CRACK!_ Legolas felt something hard and sharp slam into his forehead above the right brow. The world suddenly exploded. He vaguely remembered Aragorn’s look of astonishment and the intense pain that shot through his head. 

Then everything went black as the Elf crumpled to the ground. 


	5. Flight From Rivendell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

Dawn broke crisp and fair over the land of Imladris. A cool wind, hinting of autumn showers, swept over the hills and swirled down playfully amongst the trees. Gilded leaves responded, rustling and pattering in coy conversation with the passing breeze. The gentle gusts laughed in reply and even the golden sun seemed pleased to join the day.

Aragorn walked swiftly down an open corridor towards Legolas’ quarters, feeling the chill morning air nibble at his fingertips and nose. He reached for the guesthouse door just as Arwen pushed them open. 

“Arw—” he started with a smile. It never failed to amaze him how he could fearlessly face countless enemies, yet was rendered completely weak in the knees by one look from the lady. 

The exquisite daughter of Elrond held a finger to her lips and promptly hushed the Ranger. 

“Shhh, there are those who still slumber within these walls, Love,” she whispered. “Let us not wake them.” 

Aragorn allowed the lady to link her arm in his and direct him back down the peaceful corridor. He had seen far too little of her these past few days, and relished any opportunity that would find her at his side. 

“How is he?” asked Aragorn, sniffling in the morning air and drawing the Evenstar closer to him. The previous night had been nothing short of a nightmare. After Legolas was struck, Aragorn opted to stay with his friend and protect him rather than chase the attacker. He had been unsure of the opponents’ number, or what the enemy’s intention was. As a result, Legolas’ attacker (Aragorn was now positive there had been only one) had escaped. 

He had half-dragged the semi-conscious Legolas back to the halls of Rivendell, where they had created quite a stir. The house was in uproar—for it is not every day an Elf is attacked on elven soil, especially one of royal blood. Search parties were sent to scour the area, but by then the attacker had long-since fled (and perhaps, wisely so). Lord Elrond quickly ushered the two to the Healing House and personally administered a sleeping potion so that the injured Elf would not be hampered by a splitting headache as he recovered. 

Arwen took one of Aragorn’s hands in her own and squeezed it, attempting to give the numbed man a bit of warmth. It charmed her the way he was so strong in thought and action, yet so vulnerable to the simplest change in climate. 

“He still sleeps,” she answered. 

“Still?” Aragorn furrowed his brow. He had personally witnessed Elrond concoct the medicine. Legolas should have been awake hours ago. 

“Yes,” said Arwen. “Father was concerned as well—he wondered at first if he had perhaps over-drugged the Prince.” Her grey eyes twinkled and the corners of her mouth tugged upwards in a slight smile. “But then Rindrol mentioned how she had seen Mithrandir _‘slinking about the room’_ —I believe those were her exact words—an hour after the two of you left Legolas to his rest.” 

Aragorn sighed and shook his head. “I wonder what the sly fellow is up to now. And,” he added in afterthought, “I wonder _what_ and how much he gave Legolas.” 

Resting her head lightly upon Aragorn’s shoulder, Arwen let out a silvery peal of laughter. “You know, Love, the phrase _‘never meddle in the affairs of a wizard’_ is as old as Mithrandir himself. Yet I cannot help but wonder if his tinkering oversteps its boundaries and forces others to interfere…” 

* * * 

Those selected for the scouting missions had begun to gather in the council chambers. Elrond was just about to take his seat when he realized he had left several important maps in his chambers. “Ai,” he sighed in frustration. “Glorfindel,” he called out to the Elf lord before running his errand, “I have forgotten the maps. Council will begin in ten minutes, and I have not enough time to retrieve the maps and deliver a message to young Frodo Baggins. Will you please inform him that I wish to go over some precautions concerning the Ring and would like to see him as soon as possible?” 

The golden-haired Elf smiled amiably and waived Elrond off. “Certainly, my Lord.” 

“You have my sincere gratitude,” returned Elrond, and quickly departed. 

Glorfindel soon found himself engaged in a most fascinating conversation with Gildor of the Havens concerning the different viscosities of wood. “Elladan,” he called, “would you be so kind as to deliver a message to Frodo Baggins?” 

“It would be my pleasure,” answered the older twin. 

“Inform Master Baggins that Elrond wishes to warn him about the Ring and would like to teach him a few things about its history.” 

And with that, Glorfindel turned back to Gildor. 

“Elrohir.” 

“Hm?” Elrond’s second son turned to face his older brother. 

“Tell Frodo Baggins that Father wishes to teach him about the Ring.” 

“What?” 

“Thank you.” 

Elrohir sighed as Elladan moved away and struck up a conversation with Halbarad of the Rangers. Sometimes he really hated being the younger twin. 

Luckily, Niphrindel chose to walk by at that exact moment. 

“Captain,” commanded Elrohir. 

Niphrindel paused and then bowed slightly when he recognized who had called his name. “My Lord?” 

“Warn Frodo Baggins that Lord Elrond wishes to. . . to. . .” Elrohir recalled what Elladan had told him to the best of his knowledge, “. . .teach him lessons about wearing the Ring.” 

“Yes, my Lord.” Niphrindel bowed again. 

* * * 

After a splendid breakfast of mushroom and cheese omelets, the hobbits had retreated to their favorite spot in the garden. 

“Oooooh,” groaned Bilbo, “I do believe I have made a glutton of myself this time!” 

Ignoring the morning dampness that still clung to the grass, all five hobbits sat down on the ground and let their breakfasts settle. Pippin and Merry, lying on their backs, found amusement by pretending to ride the puffy white clouds floating overhead. 

“Whoa! Look out, Merry!” shouted Pippin, entwining his fingers in the grass and weaving back and forth with the movements of “his” cloud. 

Merry stuck out his tongue in concentration and rolled slightly to the left as the cloud maneuvered out of harm’s way. “Whew,” he gasped. “Wait! No! Turn, Pippin, TURN!” 

The overstuffed columns, oblivious to the hobbits’ game from their lofty position in the sky, met each other in an excruciatingly slow head-on collision. 

Both hobbits looked on in dismay as the clouds meshed and fused. After a moment, Pippin released the blades of grass he had wretched from the earth when attempting to turn his cloud and sat up. “I guess that takes care of that,” he stated matter-of-factly. 

Merry absentmindedly chewed on the root of a grass blade. “You should have turned sooner,” he replied. 

A very frazzled Elf darted into the serene garden. “Frodo? Frodo Baggins?” he asked breathlessly. 

“No sir, I’m not Frodo,” answered Sam. “I’m Samwise Gamgee, I am. This over here is Mister Frodo.” 

The Elf threw himself to his knees and gripped Frodo by the shoulders. Drawing the hobbit in close, he desperately relayed the message he had been ordered to give. 

“I am supposed to. . .warn you,” gasped the Elf. 

“Warn me?” asked Frodo, becoming quite alarmed. “Warn me of what?” 

“The Ring!” The Elf’s fair face contorted in anguish. “Lord Elrond plans to take the Ring and has threatened to teach you a lesson!” 

Elves cannot have heart attacks, but Lord Elrond would certainly have fallen victim to such an instance had he heard the newest version of his message. Niphrindel, discovering that he, too, had duties that suddenly needed his attention, had ordered Fanlin to deliver the message. Fanlin, in turn, told Turthal, who ordered Celdrin, who informed Nenial, who passed it on to Lildrial. . . 

Needless to say, by the time poor Elenthil delivered the message to Frodo, it had become quite altered. 

Frodo was horrified. “No!” he cried. This could not be—not Elrond! How had the wise and powerful Elf lord fallen under the spell of the Ring? If Elrond had truly been defeated, what hope was there for him? Or, for that matter, Middle-earth? Frodo felt as though he had been placed at the center of a whirlwind. His mind was spinning. He felt sick, and knew it had nothing to do with the large breakfast he had eaten. _‘Impossible!’_ he told himself. _‘No, not Lord Elrond! Oh Valar, please, not Lord Elrond!’_

The panicked Elf—Elenthil—shook Frodo. “Master Baggins? Sir? Frodo?” 

“Stop that!” yelled Sam, his desire to protect Frodo allowing him to overcome the shock of Elenthil’s news. At his side, Merry, Pippin, and Bilbo stood in stricken silence as the information sank in. 

Elenthil blinked in surprise and released Frodo. “Now see here,” began Sam, “panicking won’t help anything. It’s like the Gaffer always says: _‘energy’s better spent trying to fix the problem instead of crying and moaning about it.’_ ” 

Of course, the Gaffer had been referring to a broken wheelbarrow when he imparted this priceless bit of wisdom, but Sam decided the advice was still merited. 

Frodo seemed to gain strength from Sam’s level of calmness, and found his mind becoming sharper. 

“Sam’s right,” he stated, “Though I have no idea what we are to do. I admit, we are in quite a predicament.” 

“Flee,” whispered Elenthil. “You must flee.” 

“You mean to tell us we should just pick up and leave?” interjected Merry, finally discovering his voice. “How are we to do that? We are conveniently trapped in Lord Elrond’s land!” 

Not to be left out, Pippin added his two cents. “Isn’t there a council meeting today?” 

Elenthil perked up and nodded. “Yes, yes,” he muttered. “The council meeting. It has already begun. If you leave now. . .” 

“They will not realize we are missing until tonight, at the earliest,” finished Pippin triumphantly. 

“We?” asked Frodo, raising his eyebrows. 

“We,” Pippin stated forcefully. Sam and Merry bobbed their heads furiously in agreement. 

“Mister Frodo,” said Sam, “You’ll not get rid of us that easily. We mean to stay with you, whether you like it or not.” 

Despite all the troubles that weighed heavily upon him, Frodo could not resist a smile. “Right then,” he conceded, “We must make haste. The further away we are before they realize we’re missing, the greater chance we have of escaping.” He turned to Bilbo. 

“Don’t fret, my dear boy,” the elder hobbit said fondly. He ruffled Frodo’s hair and gave the Ringbearer a sad smile. “Let’s face it—I am of no use to you when it comes to mad dashes through the forest. But I will aid you in other ways. When Elrond questions your whereabouts, I shall inform him that you are merely resting in your rooms and do not wish to be disturbed. That should give you enough time to reach the Ford and cross the river.” 

Frodo threw himself into Bilbo’s arms. “I cannot bear to think what will happen to you once Lord Elrond uncovers your deception,” he cried. 

Bilbo gave him several hearty pats on the back. “Do not worry about me, dear boy. Now hurry, you must make use of what little time you have!” 

Frodo took a deep breath and gathered himself together. Elenthil swiftly pointed them in the direction of the Ford (“Head south,” he instructed), and with a final look back, Frodo, Sam, Pippin, and Merry began the flight from Rivendell. 

* * * 

The council room was bustling with activity when Elrond returned. The Elf Lord strode into the room, clearing his throat rather loudly as he noticed Aragorn on the receiving end of what he deemed a rather inappropriate farewell kiss from Arwen. The two pulled away sheepishly, and Elrond made a mental note to consider the possibility of locking Arwen in her room until Aragorn left the kingdom. He tossed the idea out when he concluded how many locks it would take to do so, as well as the fact that Aragorn was most likely an expert lock-picker. There really was no telling what _else_ his foster son learned from his association with the Rangers. . . 

Elrond took his place at the top of the circle, and others quickly took his lead. And with that, the Second Council began. 

* * * 

Several hours later, Council had ended, and Boromir was dumbfounded. He was positive he had made up his mind to go south. Why, then, was he headed west? The Rangers were heading west—ARAGORN was heading west. And somehow, that sneaky Lord Elrond had tricked him into going west as well. 

He wracked his brains, trying to recall exactly how it all came about. 

_“I shall be going south,” he had stated._

_Lord Elrond regarded him solemnly. “I would ask a favor of you, son of Denethor.”_

_Despite his mistrust of Elves, Boromir found himself flattered. The Elf lord had personally asked a favor of him, of all people. . ._

_“Anything, my Lord.”_

_“It would please me greatly should you choose to ride west with Aragorn and the Rangers. I feel it will be most beneficial to our cause.”_

That was when Boromir realized he had backed himself into a very small corner, and it dawned on him that no one in his right mind refuses an Elf lord. 

Boromir growled in frustration and punched himself in the shoulder as it began to twitch again. 

* * * 

The man of Gondor was not the only one unhappy with the results of the council. Gimli, Glóin, and Barin had all volunteered to scout the eastern borders, for Glóin and Barin intended to return to the Lonely Mountain. They were most displeased when it was announced that an Elven scouting party heading towards Mirkwood would be accompanying them on the first half of their journey. Even more displeasing was the fact that a certain Legolas Greenleaf (who was suspiciously absent from Council, and was therefore unable to personally choose which mission he wished to participate in) would be among the Elven scouts. 

Gimli kicked at a flower that obstructed his way and continued angrily down the garden path. _‘I should have thrown a bigger rock,’_ he raged. 

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	6. The Lion and the Gnat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

By midday, the telltale morning wind had brought its promised showers. Thankfully, the rain was without force or fury and provided only minor annoyance to the hobbits.

“I think it’s misting.” 

Sam heaved the sigh of one who has heard the same circular conversation far too many times and looked back over his shoulder. Pippin and Merry had been arguing over the weather patterns for a better part of two hours now. Pippin claimed it to be “misting,” while Merry argued for a light drizzle. Sam concluded it really didn’t matter what it was, because everything was still wet and not getting any drier. 

“Pippin, there’s no such thing as ‘misting.’” Merry pulled back a thin branch and waited until Pippin had ducked under it before letting the stick swing back into place. 

“Then what do you call this?” asked Pippin, gesturing his arms in a wide, upward arch. “If it were drizzling, we would be able to see drops of rain. As it is, I see no rain, yet I am growing wetter by the second. So you see,” he gave his head a sharp tilt for emphasis, “it is misting. OUCH!” 

Merry did not wait until Pippin was in the clear before releasing a second branch. 

“Mister Frodo,” called Sam as he trundled around a mossy tree stump, “I don’t suppose we’ll be resting anytime soon?” 

Frodo inhaled deeply and attempted to calm his jumbled emotions. He was greeted by the bitter, nutty smell of wet autumn leaves. 

“I’m sorry Sam,” he said apologetically, “but you know we have to reach the Ford by tonight. Then we can cross it tomorrow morning. If Lord Elrond captures us…” He shuddered at the thought. If Elrond were to gain power, nothing could stop him and it would be futile to try. The Elf lord did not posses Sauron’s physical strength, but his knowledge of all things was just as potent and deadly. _‘He would know everything we intended to do in order to stop him—perhaps even before we knew it ourselves,’_ thought Frodo. 

“Do you think it was he who killed the Elf?” Pippin regarded Frodo with wide-eyed expectancy. 

“What are you talking about?” cried Frodo. 

“Didn’t you hear?” asked Merry. “An Elf was attacked last night. I heard a rumor that his head was chopped off.” 

Frodo gasped. He had retired early last night, for he was still feeling the effects of the Nazgûl blade. 

“Elrond wouldn’t… he couldn’t… could he?” Sam blanched. To him, Elves were still mystical and to be revered. The thought of one Elf killing another seemed impossible. 

“That’s not all,” whispered Pippin. “I heard it was the Elf that was supposed to join us in the Fellowship.” 

Sam gasped and gripped Frodo by the tunic. “Wh-why would Elrond kill another Elf?” asked the horrified gardener. 

“Don’t you see?” said Merry. “He can’t go after Gandalf. Gandalf’s too powerful. So he eliminates the second biggest threat: the Elf. It makes perfect sense!” 

Sam, despite his terror, looked doubtful. “Wouldn’t Strider be the next biggest threat?” 

“He raised Strider,” Merry pointed out. “He wouldn’t kill his own son. I think.” 

A sickening realization dawned on Pippin. “What if… oh no!” he exclaimed. 

Three pairs of impatient eyes were turned his way. “What if Strider’s already on his side? I mean, Strider did bring us here.” 

The hobbits found themselves drowning in a wave of utter hopelessness and despair. Had the whole of Middle-earth been turned against them? 

Snapping branches suddenly echoed throughout the forest. 

“Listen!” gasped Pippin. “What is that?” 

“Run!” cried Frodo, “They’re after us! RUN!” 

Four startled and frightened hobbits dashed madly through the trees, seeking desperately to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their pursuers. 

* * * 

The crebain gave his wings a satisfactory flap and watched the hobbits fleeing below him. Orcs and Wargs could not penetrate the Elven boundaries of Rivendell, but the rules differed for those of the air. _‘Foolish creatures,’_ thought the bird smugly. His scare tactics had worked perfectly. Now all he needed to do was fly back to the others and wait. The hobbits would deliver themselves. 

* * * 

Legolas (whose head, despite rampant rumors, was still intact) lifted heavy lids and was greeting by blinding light. He moaned and quickly shut them. He felt unnaturally disoriented and ill. _‘Did I drink too much wine last night?’_ he wondered. _‘I have overslept! Father will have my head.’_ The Elf tried in vain to recall what he had drank the previous evening and then stopped himself—thinking was far too painful. 

Gritting his teeth, Legolas forced open his eyes. _‘Strange,’_ he thought, _‘my head does not throb. It aches.’_

He gingerly reached up to rub his forehead and was surprised when his fingers touched not skin, but a bandage. _‘What in the name of—’_ Fragments of last night’s events flooded through his mind in befuddling waves. 

He was not in Mirkwood, he had traveled to Rivendell… for Council. Then there was the Ring… The dwarf and the pond… Legolas winced as he recalled that particular incident. He had been walking with Aragorn and someone attacked them. 

_‘Aragorn!’_ the Elf sat up quickly. Had Aragorn fared any better than he had? 

He vaguely recalled the Ranger dragging him to Elrond. And then Elrond had given him something…and then… 

“MITHRANDIR!” the Elf yelled out loud. 

The door to his quarters was immediately opened and Glorfindel peered through the frame. “Legolas?” called the golden-haired Elf lord. “Is everything well?” 

“As well as is to be expected,” he replied grumpily, “when one is drugged by a wizard.” 

Glorfindel laughed and stepped into the room. “I hoped you would awaken soon.” 

“Has the council meeting already ended?” 

Glorfindel nodded. “My friend, you have slept for the better part of the day. The evening meal draws near.” 

Legolas groaned and made move to draw himself up from the bed. 

“Nay Thranduilion,” smiled the older Elf, “I would speak to you of our scouting mission to Mirkwood first, then you may rise.” 

“Scouting mission to Mirkwood?” 

Glorfindel could not help but notice the unnaturally strained tone in the Elf prince’s voice. “Yes,” he regarded the younger Elf curiously. “We assumed you wished to inform your father of your upcoming departure.” 

_“Assumed?”_

Glorfindel raised a golden brow. “Legolas,” he said sternly, “I am quite aware of what I say and do not need you to repeat it for me. Do you not wish to return to Mirkwood?” 

He was greeted with silence. “Legolas?” 

Legolas unconsciously twisted a bed sheet in his hands and suddenly found the wall fascinating to stare at. 

Glorfindel furrowed his brow in frustration. _‘Confounded prince,’_ he thought. He had the sneaking suspicion that the Elf had somehow ended up on Thranduil’s bad side—again. Legolas had a knack for doing so. His mother had been Thranduil’s exact opposite, yet was blessed with infinite patience and a sweet, even temper. Legolas had managed to inherit all of her traits except the last few. Instead, he had been gifted with Thranduil’s stubborn pride and temper. As a result, the two rarely saw eye-to-eye and neither was willing to budge from his position. 

Glorfindel decided the issue was a lost cause. “You are to join the eastern scouting party and I am to lead the group, which will consist primarily of Rivendell Elves. I technically have no commanding power over you due to your Mirkwood connexions, but it was decided that your knowledge of the area would be of the greatest asset.” 

The Elf lord rattled on, but Legolas hardly listened. _‘Now I know I shall have to face the wrath of Father. Once again, his punishment has backfired.’_ In attempt to preserve the timelessness of Elven life, Thranduil had forbid the Wood-Elves to make contact with any outside members of the forest. Several months ago he had been most displeased to discover his youngest son frequented the human settlement of Laketown*. Legolas did not wish to disobey the king, but his curiosity for news of outer lands had finally outweighed Thranduil’s orders. It had been more out of exasperation than anger that had caused Thranduil to send his youngest child to Imladris ( _“It is adventure you seek, my son?” he had sarcastically declared. “Then I shall give you one: ride to Imladris and inform Lord Elrond that the creature Gollum has escaped.”)._ Nonetheless, a punishment was a punishment, and Thranduil would not be happy to find that Legolas had somehow managed to use it to his benefit. 

Legolas watched Glorfindel’s face as the captain spoke. _‘I wonder if he realizes he tends to blink quite a bit when speaking…’_

* * * 

“Father, may I inquire as to what you are doing?” 

Elrond jumped and turned to face his lovely daughter. “Oh, I… I was just on my way to visit the hobbits,” he stammered. 

Arwen was suspicious: Elf lords do not stammer. “You know perfectly well that this is my room. What is it you are hiding behind your back?” She craned her neck and attempted to peer over her father’s shoulder. “Is that a lock I see in your hands?” 

The fair maiden put both hands on her hips and looked at her father questioningly. “One would think you were attempting to lock me in my room!” she laughed. 

Elrond looked embarrassed. 

Arwen’s eyes widened in shock as she realized that was indeed Elrond’s intention. “FATHER!” 

The Lord of Imladris quickly kissed his daughter on the cheek, exclaiming, “You look stunning today, Daughter, and I have business to attend to so I reluctantly bid you farewell.” With that, he turned and swiftly walked (one might say ‘fled’ but Elf lords do not flee) down the hallway. 

* * * 

Bilbo stopped his pacing as a light hand rapped at the door. He took a deep breath and sent a silent plea to the Valar. _‘And so it begins,’_ he thought grimly as he opened the door. 

“My lord Elrond, what a pleasant surprise.” Bilbo did not miss the lock the Elf carried in his hands. _‘He knows!’_ the hobbit thought in anguish. _‘He has come to lock me up!’_

“Ah, Bilbo. I must say I am relieved to find you here.” Elrond smiled down at the hobbit. “I cannot seem to find the rest of your kindred. Do you know of their whereabouts?” 

Bilbo felt the icy grip of despair close around him. _‘You may have me, O Elf Lord,’_ he thought furiously, _‘but I shall not go without a fight!’_

“Do your best, Lord Elf!” he cried, “But I will never tell you where they are! You will never find them! Never!” 

Elrond was stunned. “Bilbo Baggins, what is the meaning of this?” asked the perplexed Elf. “Where are the other hobbits? I have no time for games! Frodo must be warned of the Ring’s dangers before he unwittingly harms himself and those around him.” 

Now it was Bilbo’s turn to be shocked. “You don’t want the Ring?” he asked, feeling his previous adrenaline rush fade away. “But I thought—we were told—don’t you want to take the Ring and use it for yourself?” 

“I would never do such a thing,” exclaimed Elrond, looking somewhat horrified. “Bilbo, what gave you such an idea? Where is Frodo? Bilbo?” 

The hobbit looked into the Elf’s wise, piercing eyes and knew Elrond to be truthful. Elrond regarded Bilbo with concern as the elder hobbit became ashen-faced and shaky. “Oh no, oh no,” Bilbo moaned. Elrond reached out a steadying arm to catch the hobbit as his knees gave away and he slowly sank to the floor. 

“We thought you were going to take the Ring and use it,” Bilbo wailed. “So they fled from your halls. They have left the safety of Rivendell—they are gone!” 

* * * 

The four hobbits did not stop running until the full harvest moon hung heavily in the night sky and the rushing waters of the Ford could be heard directly in front of them. Exhausted beyond all measure, they collapsed onto the ground and allowed their aching limbs to rest. 

Sam stifled a groan as he rolled over onto his stomach. “Do you think they’re still following us, Mister Frodo?” he whispered. 

_“Shhhh!”_ hissed Merry. 

Sounds seemed to intensify in the darkened Elven forest, and trees cast distorted shadows in the pale moonlight. On any other night it would have been considered strangely beautiful, but given the hobbits’ current situation, the night was terrifying and eerie. 

They strained their ears and glanced furtively about the deep shadows. 

“Elves can walk silently,” whispered Pippin. “We wouldn’t be able to hear them. What if we’re surrounded right now?” 

Frodo didn’t even want to consider that. _“Shhh!”_ Merry hissed again. 

The hobbits lay in wait for several minutes. All was silent. 

Frodo sighed in relief and slowly sat up. “I think we’re in the clear,” he whispered. 

The moment the words escaped his mouth, the dreaded snapping of branches reverberated through the trees yet again. In the silence of the night, the sound seemed thunderous. 

The group was up and running before Frodo even had a chance to yell “Run!” 

“To the Ford!” he shouted. “We must cross now!” 

They burst through the trees and skidded to a halt at the banks of the Ford. The afternoon’s rain had caused the waters to rise, and the swollen river was frothing and foaming as it careened haphazardly through its bed. 

“What do we do now?” cried Pippin in dismay. 

The sound of their pursuers grew closer, and the hobbits whirled to face their foes. 

“They’re coming!” wailed Sam as a dark shadow fluttered out of the trees and landed onto the bank. 

Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin stared open-mouthed at their “foe.” 

_“Peep!”_ The crebain rustled his wings and let out a cry. 

“A bird?” Pippin gurgled meekly. “We were being chased by a bird?” 

Sam let go of his tight grip on Frodo’s tunic and rubbed his hand over his face. He was sure he was going to pass out or cry. Maybe both. 

“A bird,” repeated Pippin. Merry began to chuckle. Frodo felt a foolish grin break across his face. 

“We ran all day,” said Merry, desperately trying to smother the laughter building up inside his gut, “from a bird!” 

That did it. All four hobbits collapsed in laughter. “You should have seen the look on your face!” howled Pippin as he pointed at Sam. 

Sam was laughing so hard tears were streaking down his cheeks. “Don’t worry, ha hah, Mister Frodo,” he gasped, “I’ll save you!” 

The four finally managed to gather themselves together and settled down comfortably on the bank. The laughter had released much pent-up tension, and all were feeling much more optimistic. Sam had managed to stuff a surprisingly large quantity of food into his side pouch during breakfast, and the hobbits ate the swiped bounty with gusto. 

“Here you go, Little Terror,” said Pippin as he tossed the bird a few crumbs. “Not that you deserve this.” 

Sam smacked Pippin’s hand as he threw the bird a few more crumbs. “Stop that,” the gardener ordered. “That’s food for us—not the birds. The Gaffer always said, _‘don’t give away what you can’t afford to.’”_

Pippin grumbled as he rubbed his hand. Merry tossed a few crumbs to the bird when he thought Sam wasn’t looking. 

“Look, he has a friend.” Pippin pointed to the second black bird that fluttered down from the trees. 

“See, now look what you started,” said Sam as a third, fourth, and fifth bird joined the group. “They think you’ll feed them all.” 

Much to his annoyance, Merry and Pippin began feeding all five birds. “Maybe they’ll warn us when the Elves come,” Pippin said hopefully. 

Merry brushed the final crumbs away from his hands. “All gone, my friends,” he said cheerfully. By this time, the crowd of birds numbered no less than twenty. 

Frodo yawned. “I suppose we should get some sleep,” he said. “We’ll have just as difficult a journey tomorrow.” He picked himself up and began walking over to a fallen tree stump. 

“Shoo, shoo,” he muttered, waving his hands at the chirping birds. They seemed to be growing in numbers, but perhaps his tired mind was playing tricks on him. 

“OW!” One of the birds nipped at his finger. “Which one of you little monsters…” 

Frodo trailed off and noticed that there was indeed a large number of crebain in the area. “OW!” He was nipped again and retreated back to his three companions. They were faring no better. 

“Stop that!” roared Sam, swatting furiously at air. His ear stung where the bird had pecked him. 

“AAAHH! This is the thanks I get for feeding you?” Merry tried to kick the bird nipping at his feet. 

The four hobbits found themselves standing in a circular formation with their backs to one another. Frodo gasped. 

The trees had become alive with chirruping birds. The rush of many flapping wings and shrieking black shadows filled the night air, and the gigantic flock took to the sky. The great host blocked out the moon as they circled and dove in unison. 

“Frodo,” Sam murmured uneasily. “I don’t like this.” 

As if on cue, the massive cloud of crebain encircled the hobbits. Round and round they flew, trapping the four in an impenetrable wall of talons, beaks and feathers. 

Then they attacked. 

Frodo buried his head in his arms as the birds ripped and tore at him. The creatures were merciless. He heard Sam cry out in pain and turned to see the beasts pecking furiously at his friend’s hands, which he had thrown up to protect his eyes. With beaks akin to small daggers, the crebain savagely stabbed the defenseless hobbits. Needle-sharp talons raked across Frodo’s cheek and he felt the stinging wetness of blood slide down his face. 

“Stop!” he screamed to no avail. “Please, stop!” 

Pippin was weighed down as several birds perched upon him and began grabbing various parts of his clothing. He cried out in pain as their wicked claws dug deep into his flesh and pierced the skin. Panic overwhelmed him when he realized the crebain intended to fly off with them. 

“Help!” shrieked Pippin as he was lifted off his feet. “Someone! Anyone! _Heeeeeeeelp_!” 

Merry somehow managed to fight off his attackers and latched on to Pippin’s ankle. “Don’t let go,” sobbed Pippin, caught in a deadly tug-of-war between his cousin and the crebain. 

Sam and Frodo grabbed hold of Merry’s waist, and the three frantically tried to pull Pippin down to earth. Pippin struggled with all his might against the talons that held him fast. Enraged, the crebain attacked with even greater ferocity, inflicting countless wounds upon the four. 

The sheer number of the raven-feathered beasts finally overwhelmed the hobbits, and there was little they could do as the birds succeeded in overpowering them all. 

Beaten and bloody, Frodo closed his eyes as the wind howled around him and the ground grew increasingly smaller beneath his feet. The crebain screeched in delight, and the four hobbits were borne swiftly through the night sky. Where they were headed was anyone’s guess. 

******* 

_How’s THAT for some action, eh? ;) Okay, so attack of the birds is probably not that original or exciting, but you’ll never see an Orc or Warg fly off with the characters (I guarantee it)._

_*Laketown: The human settlement near Mirkwood. The Wood Elves trade with them for various goods. (Special thanks to Aralome Finarfin for helping me out with this one)._

_I am assuming “crebain” is singular and plural, similar to “deer.”_


	7. November Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

**A/N** :  
Regarding Shadowfax: Originally I wasn’t sure if Gandalf had met the horse yet. My research shows that Gandalf “borrowed” him from Theoden on September 20th of 3018. Council took place October 25th, and the Fellowship left Rivendell on December 25th. It’s all good…

******* 

“You found no sign of them?” 

Elrond banged his fist on the table in frustration and looked up from the map he had been studying. “Nay, Mithrandir. Our only clue is this.” The Elf lord held up three crebain feathers. “The rain washed away all else, and made it impossible to track their flight.” 

Gandalf slowly twirled his beard with one finger and began examining the map. “They could be headed anywhere,” sighed the wizard. “Dol Guldur… Isengard… Mordor.” 

“The question,” stated Elrond wearily, “is whether or not they are first headed to Saruman and then Sauron, or straight to Sauron. We simply have no way of knowing.” 

He pounded the map again and began pacing back and forth along the Study floor. _‘It would be much easier,’_ concluded the Elf lord, _‘if I could place the blame for this incident on a single soul. As it is, there are far too many at fault—myself included—and I have no one to direct my anger at.’_

“I knew of the crebain,” he growled. “We were uncertain of their number, but I was informed of their gathering on our borders and occasional flights into our lands. Had I but known—” 

“You did not,” interrupted Gandalf. “There are too many ‘what if’s’ to dwell on. Let us instead focus on solving the problem.” 

Elrond nodded briskly. “Yes, you are right. Unfortunately,” he sighed, “our attempts to solve the problem have only created more of them. The scouts have already left—who are we to send?” 

Gandalf sniffed and pulled himself up importantly. When the lord of Rivendell ignored him, he cleared his throat loudly. 

“ _No_ ,” Elrond stated emphatically. 

“I believe, my friend, you have little choice,” the wizard pointed out. 

“You barely escaped your last encounter with Saruman,” argued Elrond. 

“I was unaware of his intentions. I assure you,” countered Gandalf, “he will not ensnare me so easily a second time.” 

“You do not know which direction they are headed.” Elrond folded his arms across his chest and glared at the wizard. 

“Stop being so thick-headed, you old bat!” Gandalf cried. “I am not some wet-behind-the-ears child. I know perfectly well what we are up against. Shadowfax will bear me, and other creatures of the forest have surely seen which direction the crebain flew off in.” 

“Old bat,” muttered Elrond as Gandalf hurried off to the pastures. “Old bat, indeed!” 

* * * 

The Rangers were a grim and silent bunch, noted Boromir as they headed through the Trollshaws*. It was the type of attitude he could appreciate, for the silence spoke of hard-fought battles and difficultly trodden paths. Perhaps Aragorn wasn’t as strange as he had originally thought, now that the man was not surrounded by Elves. 

Boromir’s gaze fell upon the weathered “king.” He had seen Aragorn kissing a particularly beautiful Elf maiden farewell, and wondered exactly what the man had done to capture the lovely creature. _‘It certainly wasn’t on looks,’_ he thought. _‘If that were true, then she would have fallen for someone such as the Elf in our Fellowship. Or any Elf, for that matter.’_

Boromir allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to have an Elven maiden swooning over him. It was quite a pleasant picture, until he remembered how his shoulder twitched every time an Elf came within ten feet of him. He was reminded of a dog his father had when he and Faramir were children. When rubbed in the right spot, the dog’s leg would begin thumping up and down involuntarily. The faster the dog was petted, the faster his leg thumped. Boromir supposed his shoulder would react similarly if an Elf maiden were to hold his hand or kiss him on the cheek. 

* * * 

At the exact moment Boromir was considering the downsides of an Elven lover, Glorfindel was trying to figure out who was more unhappy: Gimli or Legolas. 

The Dwarf’s displeasure was written plainly across his face, and could be heard in his footsteps as he stomped over the ground. Coupled with the constant mutterings under his breath (which, of course, the Elves could hear quite clearly), Gimli was almost comical. 

“Confounded forest, stupid mission, doltish Elves,” he fumed. The Dwarf suddenly found himself on the receiving end of a rain shower as a tree decided to shake its leaves the moment he passed underneath. Gimli glared at the tree and fingered his axe. 

“Witless tree.” 

Glorfindel felt the corners of his mouth threaten to tug upward. To his left, he heard Orimhedil choke back a snicker. 

Legolas, to his credit, did not display his emotions so openly. The only telltale signs of his dark mood were the unusual stiffness at which he held himself, and the smoldering glint that occasionally shone in his eyes. _‘As though something were simmering,’_ Glorfindel decided. The archer had barely given the Dwarves a second glance, though Glorfindel knew this would not be the case if Legolas were to discover one of the Dwarves had been his attacker. Elrond had assured the young Elf the culprit had been “apprehended and punished for his actions,” but gave no further information regarding the matter. _‘It was probably for the best,’_ thought Glorfindel. _‘I do suppose having to face the anger of Glóin was punishment enough.’_

The Elf lord watched Glóin toil through the trees and smiled. He really did like the grumpy old Dwarf, in spite of himself. Glóin struck him as one who remained fiercely loyal to his cause and approached life with steadfast commitment. _‘And that,’_ decided the Elf, _‘is not an easy task, especially in trying times such as these.’_

The Eastern scouting mission progressed much slower than their counterparts to the west, north and south. The Dwarves, never ones to trust horses, had opted to go on foot. The Elves knew the futility of arguing, and the Dwarves were allowed to travel by foot whilst the Elves slowly walked their mounts. 

Thunder rumbled overhead and thick raindrops splattered down from the heavens. “Let us make haste,” called Glorfindel as he squinted up at the cloudy sky. “If we are lucky, we may reach the largest bank of the Bruinen* by nightfall.” 

* * * 

_Cold. It was so very cold._

Sam lay shivering on a frigid slab of rock. He had no idea where the horrible winged beasts had taken them. They were in a large, airy cavern of sorts, this he knew. He also knew that rain was sheeting down in heavy torrents outside. The crebain seemed none-too-pleased by this recent development. 

_‘Good,’_ thought the gardener shakily, _‘It will slow them down.’_

He debated on whether or not he should sit up and check the welfare of his companions. His body felt as though it were one giant, throbbing bruise. _‘If I move,’_ he wondered, _‘will those nasty monsters start attacking me all over again?’_

Sam chanced a look at the birds. They were perched on various ledges and outcroppings that lined the cavern walls. Several of the crebain were flitting back and forth along the ceiling, crying out in calls Sam deemed as ‘angry.’ One of the raven-feathered beasts took note of his quiet observation and flew down to the hobbit’s eye-level. The creature hopped back and forth, spread his wings in a confrontational manner, and hissed. 

Sam, despite having never been hissed at by a bird, clearly understood the message. He shut his eyes tightly, feeling the cold stone numb his cheek and the hardness of the floor as it lay unyielding beneath him. 

_‘Cold. So very cold.’_

* * * 

__________________________________ 

¥ Appendix A: The Punishment of Gimli

Gimli watched as the Elf sagged and collapsed as though he were nothing more than a sack of flour. Aragorn cried out in alarm and quickly sank to his knees, cradling the Elf’s head with one arm and gripping his weapon tightly in the other as he scanned the darkened forest. 

Gimli held his breath and waited until the Ranger turned his full attention to the Elf. It seemed an eternity passed, but at last Aragorn bent his sole concentration on Legolas. Gimli slowly made his way through the trees, taking extra care not to step on any errant twigs or leaves. Luckily, a second path ran but a short distance from his attack point, and the Dwarf reached it with little difficulty. 

He turned and began to walk back to his quarters in a calm and measured pace. He would leave no panicked tracks for those who might look for the Elf’s attacker. He, Barin and Glóin had already traversed the walk several times within the last few days. His footsteps would not appear unusual or out of place. 

Though Gimli would fain admit it, he found himself growing more high-strung as he walked along. The trees rustled accusingly, and the moon illuminated him as though it were purposely seeking him out. It was with a great sigh of relief that the Dwarf finally reached his room. Elvish forests made his skin crawl. 

* * * 

Glóin glanced up from the ancient book he had been reading and watched the doorknob turn. _‘Ah,’_ thought the old Dwarf as he gave his beard a stroke, _‘At last my tardy son arrives.’_ He sat the book down and rose to meet Gimli as he entered. 

“Gimli, my boy,” he rumbled affectionately, “I began to worry you had forgotten about the evening meal. Barin grew impatient and left some time ago.” The old Dwarf paused when he noticed Gimli’s muddy hands. “Great Smiths, what have you been up to? You cannot go to dinner with hands like that.” 

Gimli hastily brushed his hands together and mumbled a reply. “Eh?” grunted Glóin, his heavy brows knitting together in curiosity. He stumped over to his son and shot him a questioning look. It did not take a fool to discern Gimli had been up to something. And judging by his son’s reaction, Glóin guessed it had been something of a questionable nature. The last time he received such a response, Gimli had accidentally cracked a wooden support beam, causing an entire mine shaft to collapse. Two months of work had been reduced to rubble in a matter of seconds. As best Glóin knew, there were no mines in Rivendell, but he was concerned nonetheless. 

“There is a leaf in your beard.” Glóin’s deep baritone grew in suspicion. “You have been tramping about those forsaken trees?” 

Gimli cleared his throat and threw back his shoulders. “I had some business to attend to.” Glóin crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at his son. Gimli suddenly felt as though he were a naughty child, caught with one hand on the precious rock pile. He lifted his bearded chin; he was NOT a child. Glóin continued to look straight through him. Gimli could literally feel the years melting away as he was reduced to a Dwarven youngster under his father’s gaze. 

“I dealt with the Elf,” he said gruffly. Curse that look! 

Glóin narrowed his eyes. “You did what? How?” 

Gimli shrugged nonchalantly and a slight gleam came to his eyes. It did not go unnoticed by his father. “I let him know the consequences of angering a Dwarf,” Gimli chuckled at the fond memory of the Elf’s ungraceful fall. “It was just a little rock, though I suppose it will certainly leave a mark. I wish you could have witnessed it, he fell harder tha—AHH OOH OW!” 

Gimli was not exactly sure what occurred after that, for he suddenly found himself being yanked along the hallway by his beard. “You foolish boy!” roared Glóin, marching down the corridor with a yelping Gimli in tow. “No son of mine is a rock-thrower! I cannot believe what my ears have heard! Such shame! What in the name of Mahal went through your head? Did you even bother to think at all?” The ranting Dwarf stressed each word with an even harder tug. 

“Argh! No! I—OUCH—where are we—OOH—going?” Gimli winced and his eyes began to water. 

Glóin promptly turned to his son and boxed his ear. “To Lord Elrond,” he bellowed. “You shall be lucky if he does not throw a rock—nay, a tree—at you!” 

* * * 

Elrond propped his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. He rested his chin upon them and sighed. What a dreadful night had unfolded. Imladris was considered by many to be among the safest of Elven realms, save perhaps Lothlórien and Mithlond. And yet, on this very night an attack had occurred, and the perpetrator all but vanished into the night. 

He had spent the last hour or so attending Legolas, who had received a rather painful head wound, and found himself strangely wearied. He sighed again. If the safety of Imladris was no longer within his abilities, then perhaps… 

_‘Then perhaps I too must bow to the inevitable. Perhaps this signals the end of my reign as well.’_ A vision of Celebrían, as she had been before her capture and ruin, floated before him. He shook his head to dispel it. _‘Nay, my dearest wife, I cannot join you yet, for there is still much to do. Soon, though. Soon.’_

He lifted his head as he heard footsteps approaching the study. While he had been aiding Legolas, a servant informed him that Glóin wished to speak with him. Elrond had been unable to see the Dwarf at the exact moment, and therefore suggested they meet in the Elven lord’s study. Glóin agreed, and Elrond had been patiently awaiting his arrival. 

The wide oaken door swung open as Glóin strode in. An extremely guilty-looking Gimli was not far behind him. Elrond felt his curiosity piqued. “Glóin, Gimli.” He nodded to each and gestured for the two to sit in one of the many cushioned chairs about the room. He watched as Gimli made for an old over-stuffed green one, which sat neglected in the corner, and then as Glóin grabbed the younger Dwarf by his sleeve and yanked him to the center of the room. 

“Tell him, boy.” Elrond raised a brow at the tone of Glóin’s voice. The older Dwarf sounded… threatening. 

Gimli grunted a reply, which even Elrond’s keen ears could not translate, and was promptly whacked in the back of the head by the heavy hand of his father. “It was I,” grumbled the sullen Dwarf. 

“Pardon?” Elrond furrowed his brow and leaned forward. “You whom what?” 

Gimli shot a guilty look at Glóin and sighed. “It was I who attacked the Elf.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I threw a rock at him.” 

Elrond remained motionless for several moments. Gimli tried to stand a little taller as he waited for the Elf lord to speak. “I see,” Elrond began slowly as he digested the confession. “Gimli, you are aware what the consequences of your actions may be?” 

Glóin grunted as Gimli nodded miserably. “Not only did you attack an Elf, and on the soil of my realm no less, but you also attacked an Elf of royal blood.” He sent Gimli a piercing gaze. “You could be tried for assault, Master Dwarf.” 

“I am well aware of this,” Gimli stated gruffly. He wished he had not thrown the rock. Nay, he wished he had not told his father he had thrown the rock. 

Elrond sighed. Gimli and Legolas already faced the standard prejudices regarding each other, not to mention the rather touchy history between their fathers. The son of Glóin had managed to throw another log on the fire, and a large one at that. “Do what you will with him, Lord Elrond,” said Glóin. “He is certainly deserving of it.” 

Elrond rose gracefully from his seat and came to stand next to Gimli. He looked down at the Dwarf with a severe eye. Gimli valiantly attempted to meet the looming Elf’s gaze, but found himself unable to do so. He had never before realized how tall and… frightening… Elves could be. He had always viewed them as a flighty, childish bunch—good for singing or coddling trees, and little else. 

Elrond stared down the Dwarf a few moments more, until Gimli began to show signs of extreme discomfort. “Due to difficult complications, which may arise from a public avowing of your guilt Gimli son of Glóin, I shall pass the duty of judgment over to your father.” 

* * * 

“And when you are done sharpening our blades, do be so kind as to fetch me a cup of tea. The Elves make a wonderful brew, would you not agree, Barin?” 

Gimli, muttering furiously under his breath, took to whetting the axe blades with greater fervor as flashes of rage shot through his body. Glóin and Barin were seated comfortably within their overstuffed chairs, while he was forced to run at their every call and beckon. Glóin had even taken the liberty of shooing off Lord Elrond’s servants, claiming Gimli was “more than willing” to perform the cleaning duties. 

Still muttering, he roughly dropped the axes to the ground and wiped his hands on a grimy towel (which of course, he must wash). “Eh? What was that, boy?” Glóin peered at his son from over the large book his was reading. 

“Nothing!” snapped Gimli. He threw the dirty towel into a large linen bag, swearing as he noticed the other Dwarves’ dirty tunics lying in a messy heap in the corner. _‘Would it be asking too much if they would just place their rags into the bag as I requested?’_ fumed the Dwarf, storming over to shove the pile into the linen sack. _‘One would think an army of orcs inhabits this room!’_

_“Gimliii,”_ drawled Barin, a little too sweetly. 

“What now?” he spat, throwing the linen bag against the wall in a huff. “I have already lit your pipe, fluffed your pillow, rotated your chair so it faces the sunlight, AND TURNED THE PAGE OF YOUR BOOK THRICE!” 

Barin sighed deeply. “Yes, but I have an itch.” 

Gimli narrowed his eyes. “I must go fetch a cup of tea.” 

Glóin and Barin watched in whole-hearted amusement as Gimli stalked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. “Well, strike the hot iron,” exclaimed Barin as they listened to the fuming Dwarf walk down the hallway, “do these boots look a bit scuffed to you?” 

Glóin pulled the pipe from his lips and leaned over to examine the other’s boots. “I believe they do,” he replied, and brought the pipe back to his mouth. 

Barin chuckled. “Perhaps Gimli would be so kind as to polish them for me. . .” 

******* 

_*The Trollshaws: A little forest on the left of the East-West Road. It’s past the Ford and to the west of Rivendell._

_**Bruinen (Loudwater) River. Borders Rivendell and runs slightly northeast. Heads towards the High Pass._


	8. Fight or... Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

_* **A/N** :Quickie little point of reference: Aulë the Smith (or “Mahal” in the dwarven tongue) is viewed as the creator of the dwarven race. Sauron, in his early years, often served Aulë and called himself names such as Artano (“High Smith”) or Aulëndil (“Devoted to Aulë”). _

_“Fëa” is the elvish word for “soul.” Elves believed Dwarves did not have one and simply dissolved back into the earth when they died._

_Ah, and a slight warning to the squeamish. I toned Merry’s injuries down as best I could._

******* 

An evening campfire crackled merrily beneath the leafy boughs of the trees. If one listened carefully, the rushing waters of the Bruinen could be heard just up ahead. 

Legolas stoked the fire half-heartedly and tried to bury his swiftly rising irritation. The Dwarf had been staring at him since he had first sat down by the fire. The detestable creature appeared to be waiting for something. 

Gimli watched the Elf slowly poke at the burning logs and felt indignation sizzling within. The Elf had not even bothered to give him a second glance. _‘He is purposely ignoring me,’_ thought the Dwarf angrily, _‘and has so far refused to offer an apology to my father—which is long overdue.’_

In truth, Legolas was unaware that Gimli was the son of Glóin. While the Elf had attended Council, for all he knew Barin might as well have been Gimli. He still couldn’t distinguish between the two. Of course, Legolas had not exactly tried to do so. Thranduil had stressed to him on numerous occasions that one Dwarf was the same as them all: stunted brutes who would sell their own children if they thought it would bring them one more piece of mithril or precious gem. _“They would bargain with their Fëar,”_ Thranduil had said, _“but it is well known they posses no such thing.”_

Legolas found himself wondering how one could go on existing without a soul. _‘What miserable creatures their kind must be,’_ he thought. _‘I almost pity them.’_

The uncomfortable silence stretched longer. The remaining members of the group were either foraging, on watch, or sleeping, ensuring that the pair would not be interrupted for quite some time. Gimli watched as firelight gleamed in the Elf’s hair and eyes. It cast unnatural shadows along his face, throwing dark circles under his eyes and causing his cheeks to appear sunken. 

_‘Not so pretty now,’_ thought Gimli with smug satisfaction. Of course, not that it mattered to him whether the Elf was pretty or not. 

Legolas continued to stare at the fire. _‘I wonder what the foul creature wants. Is it customary for the Dwarven Race to gawk rudely at all they see?’_ He grinned inwardly as the Dwarf began fidgeting. _‘Poor fool, do you grow tired of this contest?’_ Legolas could go on as such all night. 

The son of Thranduil frowned when he suddenly realized what he was doing. _‘Why are you engaging in such petty behavior?’_ one side of his mind began chiding. _‘Stop this foolishness immediately!’_ The voice was quickly drowned out by a more stubborn one, which promptly shouted, _‘You would give victory to a lower creature? And you call yourself an Elf! Shame on you, son of Thranduil! Shame on you!’_

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head viciously. The last thing he needed was an argument between the voices in his head. His conscience continued warring back and forth until he finally decided to go with the louder and more pushy of the two. _‘I may be childish,’_ he concluded, _‘but I am an Elf. The day a lower creature bests me in any competition is the day I shall grow a Dwarven beard.’_

Glorfindel watched the two below from his perch high atop an Elm. Legolas and Gimli appeared to be in some sort of duel of silence. Struck by the immensely idiotic behavior of the two, Glorfindel could not help but be entertained. _‘I have not known Gimli for a great while, but I bet Legolas shall win this one,’_ he thought. 

Never one to stay silent for very long, Gimli was finding it most difficult to do so now. He would not, _could not_ , let the Elf win. 

The minutes crawled by agonizingly. Finally, Gimli could take no more. “I thought the Elves were fond of song and speech. Have you swallowed your tongue?” 

The Elf cast a piercing gaze upon the Dwarf. Gimli swore he saw the thing smirk. 

“Nay,” Legolas answered. “You seemed to enjoy wallowing in the silence and I had no mind to break it.” 

“I was not ‘wallowing in the silence,’ Elf.” 

“I would argue otherwise.” 

Gimli grunted angrily and began rifling through his pack in search of his pipe. He had the distinct feeling the Elf would win a war of words as well. Settling back, he lit the pipe and drew a long breath. Smoking was much more preferable to arguing with an arrogant Elf. Drawing another puff, he allowed the tingling, warm sensation of tobacco to spread throughout his body. 

Legolas curled his lip in disdain. The creature was smoking—in an Elvish forest. 

“Must you engage in such disgusting habits whilst beneath our trees?” 

Gimli raised his brows in surprise. He had not expected the Elf to pursue any form of communication. Pausing to look at the Elf, he released an extremely large puff of smoke directly towards the tree leaves. “I find it relaxing,” he answered, pleased he had struck a nerve. 

Legolas could almost hear the trees cough and see the leaves withering. “You resemble a dragon with all the billows pouring from your mouth, and it smells twice as bad,” he snapped, feeling the day’s long ride and the temper he had inherited from his father get the better of him. “Perhaps you have more in common than the love of smoke.” 

Gimli regarded the young Elf suspiciously. He was thoroughly enjoying the fact that he had ruffled the little prince’s feathers, yet something about the last comment raised his hackles. “If you have something to say, Elf, I would advise you to spit it out.” 

Legolas’s eyes glinted as he narrowed and pinned them on the Dwarf. “It is widely known that Sauron, or shall I call him ‘ _Aulëndil_ ,’ was favored by Aulë. One must wonder where the loyalties of the Dwarves lie.” 

“You imply we are among the minions of Sauron?” spat the Dwarf, his knuckles white as he gripped his pipe in anger. 

Legolas immediately regretted his slip of tongue. He really ought to have more control over himself than that, and he knew it. Besides, a creature without a Fëa was probably not the smartest choice of beasts to anger. 

Eyes still locked with his Dwarven counterpart, Legolas shrugged nonchalantly. “I merely state the obvious.” He silently cursed himself for ending up in such a predicament. The Dwarf was furious, and Legolas knew his continued baiting was not helping matters. Perhaps he was far too prideful for his own good… 

“Then while we are pointing fingers, let us not forget your people,” Gimli growled, watching the Elf stiffen. “Much is said of the Morquendi’s allegiance, and we all know of your father’s—“ 

“Enough!” Glorfindel jumped from the tree and landed beside the fire. “Legolas, relieve Rithol of her watch. Gimli, follow the lead of Barin and take to your bed. _Now_.” The Elf lord’s voice rang with steel and left no room for protest. 

Legolas took several deep breaths to cool his boiling temper, which had escalated alarmingly at “we all know of your father’s”, and with a final scathing glance at the Dwarf, turned and walked into the trees. 

“Watch out for falling rocks, Elf.” Legolas heard the Dwarf’s warning follow him as he stalked into the forest. Only after he had had taken over Rithol’s post did he realize that only a handful knew his attacker had used a rock as the weapon of choice. Gimli was not of this handful. 

* * * 

Merry was induced from his shivering stupor by the increased activity of the birds overhead. The wind whistling through the airy caverns of the cave no longer held its previous slap of wetness, and he supposed the rain had ceased. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, contributing unmercifully to his already-pounding headache. It was impossible to keep warm while lying on stone in damp clothing. 

The hobbit curled into himself and shut his eyes. Somehow, in the confines of his frozen and muddled brain, Merry decided he would go no further. _‘No more. No more,’_ he repeated silently. He could think of nothing else save that the crebain would never succeed in moving him from this spot. Merry attempted to ball his fists resolutely, then smothered a whimper of pain when they refused to do so. Stomach churning at what he might find, the hobbit reluctantly looked down. 

He gulped quickly and averted his eyes. During their attempt to force him to release Pippin, the crebain had focused primarily on Merry’s hands. They had done their work well: Merry’s hands were blue and swollen. Torn and perforated, they resembled anything but the gentle hands of hobbits. 

_‘At least I am too cold and numbed to feel them,’_ he thought in an uncharacteristic moment of black humor. 

The raven-feathered beasts began fluttering down to the stone floor in preparation to resume their dark journey. Merry heard Frodo and Sam moan as they were roughly lifted into the air. As far as he could tell Pippin was still unconscious. 

Before he could protest, Merry felt himself raised from the ground and whisked out of the cave. Trees covered the jagged, mountainous slope below him and wisps of misty cloud appeared to be ensnared in their branches. He could not deal with this again. Something inside of him snapped. 

Bellowing in anger, the young hobbit began kicking and twisting with all his might. “Let me go!” he screamed, feeling crebain talons grip him tighter. 

Despite their best efforts, the birds could not control the mad hobbit. Merry was past any form of punishment they could deliver—he’d had enough and would take no more. 

Frodo and Sam watched in horror as the crebain crowed in anger and suddenly released Merry from their grasp. Arms pin-wheeling in desperate attempt to regain balance on the ground that wasn’t there, Merry plummeted earthward with a terror-stricken cry. 


	9. One With the Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

The owl woke abruptly as he was rudely prodded with a stick. Ruffling his feathers and hooting angrily, he attempted, to no avail, to move out of reach. “Cease your cruelness at once!” he bellowed, blinking the sleep from his large yellow eyes.

“My most sincerest apologies,” called The One With The Stick, “but my situation is most urgent.” 

The owl angrily hooted again and peered out from his cozy tree den. A funny man with a long beard and large hat was trying to poke him with a staff. A magnificent silver-white horse stood patiently at his side. 

“Leave me to my rest,” the owl called. “I cannot help you! Now go away!” 

But The One With The Stick persisted. “You were awake last night, were you not?” 

“Of course I was,” replied the owl crossly. “I am always awake during the night. Because I SLEEP during THE DAY.” 

The One With The Stick did not choose to acknowledge the owl’s bluntly stated hint. “I don’t suppose you witnessed anything unusual last evening? More specifically, a large flock of crebain—“ 

The owl clacked his beak in great fury. “Please do not remind me of that unruly army,” he hooted, “they scared away every last bit of game. I was unable to hunt successfully because of their incessant cawing and crowing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am most tired and more than a little hungry. Good day.” 

“One last thing, if you will,” called The One With The Stick. 

_“What?”_ cried the owl in exasperation. 

“Do you know, mayhap, which direction the flock was headed when they departed?” 

The owl ruffled his feathers in irritation and pondered the question for several minutes. “South,” he answered thoughtfully, “slightly to the west.” 

“Are you sure?” called The One With The Stick. 

“Yes, yes,” snapped the owl. “I’m positive. Now go away!” 

Gandalf tipped his hat in appreciation and turned to mount Shadowfax. “Thank you, my friend,” he called to the owl as he pulled himself onto the horse’s strong back. 

The owl’s muffled reply was lost in the trunk of the tree. 

“Let us make haste my swift friend,” the wizard said to his steed, “for I fear they are headed to Isengard.” 

* * * 

The flinty hooves of the great Shadowfax flew over the uneven terrain. Gandalf leaned down closer to the horse’s smooth, silvery neck and urged the brave steed on to an even faster pace. The stallion neighed thunderously as he increased his speed, and under his tremendous strides even the mountains posed no greater difficulty to him than a flat plain. 

“Halt, Shadowfax,” called Gandalf after a time. “I feel that we may stumble upon something, though good or bad I cannot tell.” 

Shadowfax snorted and slowed to a gentle walk. “Here,” said Gandalf, and made move to dismount. The wizard inspected the ground, looking for any clues. Shadowfax followed behind, carefully picking his way around fallen branches and tree stumps. He regarded Gandalf expectantly with his warm brown eyes as the wizard looked up at the sky and sighed. 

“I have no idea what clue we are looking for,” admitted Gandalf. 

The horse pricked his ears forward and shook his head as several rabbits bounded into the undergrowth. Gandalf blinked. “Perhaps they have seen something,” he murmured to himself. 

“Greetings, small friends,” called the wizard, “I am Gandalf the Grey and I—“ 

“Gandalf?” squeaked one of the rabbits. “I say, Mossclover, I knew that had to be the work of a wizard.” 

“Right-o, Nisbit, my good chap,” said the second, “’twas too strange a sight not to be.” 

Gandalf was quite confused. “Begging your pardon, but what was too strange?” 

“The Thing—“ replied the one named Nisbit. 

“—that fell—“ interrupted Mossclover. 

“—from the sky,” Nisbit finished. 

“The what?” asked a perplexed Gandalf. 

Nisbit and Mossclover hopped up to get a better view of the wizard. “You mean to tell us you didn’t cause The Thing?” Nisbit twitched his nose. 

“No,” said Gandalf, becoming frustrated, “but if you describe to me what it was you saw, I may be able to give you some answers.” 

Mossclover’s ears quivered as he thought back to the sight he had witnessed. “There was a great flock of birds—“ 

“Black, they were black,” interrupted Nisbit. 

“Yes, they were black. And they flew overhead.” 

“Then The Thing came!” cried Nisbit, his eyes growing wide. 

Mossclover’s nose twitched nervously. “It screamed like an eagle.” 

“But it fell like a rock,” finished Nisbit. 

Gandalf winced. He had a horrible feeling of what “The Thing” might actually be. _‘I am not sure a hobbit would survive such a fall,’_ he thought, and silently prayed to the Valar. 

“Can you tell me where this, ah, ‘Thing’ fell?” 

Mossclover squeaked in dismay and dove back into the underbrush. “Don’t think so, old chap,” cried the rabbit, his voice quivering most unnaturally. “Better to hide from the snake than eat the bad carrot!” 

Gandalf supposed there was some wise logic behind the rabbit’s statement, but what it was even he was at a loss to comprehend. “Eat the bad…? What does that have to do with…? Oh never mind! Please, just point me in the general direction of where It fell.” 

“Now, now, settle down old boy,” said Nisbit as he began delicately chewing on a dandelion stalk. “We’re excitable folk, you know. Easily stressed.” 

The words _‘rabbit stew’_ began running through the wizard’s head as he fought to remain calm. Fortunately, Shadowfax decided he’d had just about enough as well. Faster than lightening, the stallion barred his teeth and bolted towards Nisbit. The horse attacked so swiftly that Nisbit didn’t even begin to scream until after he noticed a large chunk of his bobbed tail fluff hanging from Shadowfax’s lips. 

“Over there, off the cliff, it fell there!” howled the rabbit. “That’s where The Thing fell! Oh my poor, poor beautiful tail! What will Fiona think of me now?” 

Shadowfax snorted and eyed the rabbit smugly. The de-bobbed Nisbit sobbed pitifully as he crawled back into the underbrush. “…the thanks I get for being helpful! My poor, poor bob…” 

With a flick of his long tail, Shadowfax turned to Gandalf and allowed the wizard to mount. “I agree,” muttered Gandalf out of the corner of his mouth, “it serves him right.” 

* * * 

The stallion and wizard made for the area Nisbit had directed them. Time passed, yet still there was no sign of The Thing. The sun had reached her zenith and soon would begin to sink westward. Gandalf was growing quite worried. He fretfully tapped his staff against the base of an oak tree and aimlessly scanned the mountainside for the millionth time. Ahead of him, Shadowfax mulled about, occasionally snuffling at this patch of dirt or that rotted tree stump. 

For reasons unknown, Gandalf felt himself compelled to look over the edge of a steep drop-off on his left. Dropping down on all fours, the wizard cautiously approached the crumbling edge of the cliff. Shadowfax stamped his forefoot and snorted warningly as several stones gave way and clattered haphazardly down the cliff’s face. 

“Do not worry,” called Gandalf, dismissing the horse with a wave of his hand, “I assure you I proceed with the utmost care.” 

He peered downward. A bitter wind, which was normally broken by tree branches, flew up the sheer cliff unhindered and into the wizard’s face. Gandalf narrowed his eyes against the stinging gale as they began to water uncontrollably. One hand tightly gripping a scraggly tree root, the he cupped the other to his mouth. “Hellooooooooo! Can anyone hear me? _Helloooooooooo!”_

The wind merely swallowed his words as it rushed by. 

Leaning over the edge even further, the wizard strained his eyes. A few hardy, gnarled trees grew in various spots along the cliff’s wall. Were his wind-whipped eyes playing tricks on him, or was there truly something entangled in that thickly-needled pine tree? 

Gandalf’s heart leapt. _‘My eyes do not deceive me! There is an unmoving being snared within those branches, and I bet my staff it is a hobbit!’_

Scrambling away from the cliff’s edge, the wizard wasted no time. “Come Shadowfax,” he fairly shouted, his hair and beard windblown and standing on end. “We have a hobbit to rescue!” 

The silvery-white stallion shot Gandalf a look, which clearly said, “I shall not go prancing over cliffs to rescue anyone,” and laid back his ears. After all, they were supposed to be chasing the crebain flock. And as far as Shadowfax was concerned, the hobbit in the tree was certainly not going anywhere. It was far more rational, the horse concluded, to ride after the others and then save the treed hobbit on the return trip. 

Thus Gandalf the Grey found himself with yet another dilemma. Now that one hobbit was discovered, how exactly was he going to be retrieved? 


	10. To Kill a Dwarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

_**A/N** : To avoid confusion, I’ve made a quick character list of this chapter. There are quite a few minor ones:_

CHARACTER LIST 

~Western Scouting Party~ 

Malbeorn- a veteran Ranger 

Rowgond- a young Ranger from Hollin 

Halbarad- ***** raising eyebrows * you should know this one… 

Boromir- a Dwarf (aHAH were you paying attention?) 

Aragorn 

_~Eastern Scouting Party~_

Rithol- female Elf from Imladris 

Fanlin- male Elf from Imladris 

Orimhedil- male Elf from Imladris. Keeps watch with Legolas. 

Barin- a token Dwarf (that’s token, not Tolkien) from the Lonely Mountain. 

Glóin- Gimli’s dad! 

Glorfindel 

Gimli 

Legolas 

******* 

The eastern scouting party resumed their journey when the morning sun finally cracked through the night’s encompassing shell. By midday, the land had lost almost all traces of Elvish cultivation. The group continued to follow the river as it carved through hills that grew more prominently sloped, and stopped only momentarily for a quick lunch. 

*Eniamil berries, which flourished in the hilly woodlands, grew plentiful during the late fall months. Glorfindel watched as Legolas neatly ground the plump red berries to a pulp and then mixed the substance with water. _‘He knows Gimli nearly took his head off, and yet he is concerned only with making berry juice.’_

Legolas dumped the bowl of sweet liquid into his canteen and turned to look at Glorfindel. He raised an eyebrow in question at the older Elf’s scrutinizing stare. Then shrugging, the prince began rummaging through a food-sack. When he found the item of his desire ( _‘A bread roll?’_ wondered Glorfindel. _‘Surely the waybread is enough to sustain him.’_ ), he quickly pocketed it in a small pouch about his waist. 

Glorfindel continued to stare. _‘I know he is up to something,’_ thought the Elf lord, for he was no fool. _‘But what?’_

* * * 

_‘Hello, Boromir. Boromir, greetings. Hail son of Denethor!’_ Aragorn silently ran over every possible greeting he could think of, yet none seemed quite fitting. He risked a glance at the proud Gondorian riding behind his left shoulder. One of them would have to break the ice soon; they had been riding together for two days now. _‘If this continues on much longer, he will think I am purposely avoiding him.’_

Unbeknownst to Aragorn, Boromir was pondering exactly the same thing. _‘Aragorn, I am honored to meet you. Heir of Isildur, I greet you! How are you, Aragorn?’_

When Boromir met his eyes, Aragorn offered a weak smile. Boromir returned it with one of his own, though it resembled more of a grimace. _‘I suppose that will do for now,’_ Aragorn thought wryly. _‘Perhaps I should just approach him and outright say ‘Yes, Boromir, I am the Heir of Isildur. Give me the kingdom your family has held for generations because I have decided to claim it. After that, we shall be friends.’_ He pursed his lips. Halbarad was rolling his eyes at him again. Aragorn wished his friend would stay out of it. 

“Ahead lies the Last Bridge,” Malbeorn, a wily veteran Ranger, announced when the large wooden structure could barely be made out in the distance. The party reined in their steeds. “How shall we go about crossing?” 

“Let us break for lunch,” said Aragorn. “It will give us a chance to go over our options while looking less suspicious to any that might be watching.” 

The group agreed, and soon all were enjoying the noontide rations. “We have no other choice than to cross the bridge,” said Halbarad as he peeled an apple with his long knife. 

“Can we not go around?” asked Rowgond. The man of Hollin was still young and had not traveled as far as the other Rangers. 

Malbeorn shook his greying head. “Nay, the Greyflood* stretches all the way to the sea, and the Hoarwell* to the base of the Misty Mountains.” 

“Then we must either cross the bridge or swim the Mitheithel*,” mused Aragorn as he munched on a piece of cheese. 

Boromir swallowed a bite of his bread roll and decided to join the discussion. “I should think the rains have made the river much stronger.” 

Halbarad nodded in agreement. “Yes, you are right. We would be washed away in no time. It is folly to even attempt such an act. I repeat: we must cross the bridge.” 

“But we will be vulnerable to attack,” argued Rowgond. “You cannot tell me that a party of Rangers will go unnoticed.” 

“It would seem we have no other choice,” replied Malbeorn grimly as he stroked his greying beard. 

Aragorn finished his meal and stood up, brushing off his tunic and leggings. “Very well. We shall cross the bridge, as we have no other options.” The rest of group followed suit, and soon all were once again ready to go forth. 

* 

It was not long before the churning waters of the river could be heard. The heavy, invigorating scent of water hung in the air as the party approached the bridge. Just as Boromir expected, the rains had caused the river to rise dangerously. Fortunately, the bridge’s makers had foreseen such events and thus built it quite high. Constructed of sturdy wooden beams, the Last Bridge was wide enough for two drawn wagons to cross with ease. 

“I believe I have spotted the first of our welcoming party,” murmured Malbeorn, his sharp eyes missing nothing. A peasant man was leaning lazily against the bridge’s high railings. 

“Nay, he is fishing,” said Rowgond, noting the scruffy man’s pole and dented bucket. 

“We shall see,” Malbeorn replied. “We shall see.” 

The Rangers and Boromir reached the base of the structure and urged their horses on. The peasant, pausing a moment to glance at them, promptly gathered his items and retreated. 

“He left.” Rowgond furrowed his brow in perplexion. 

“Scout.” Malbeorn kicked his steed with his heels and took the lead. 

“What?” asked Boromir. 

“He was a scout. Or a spy—whichever you prefer. We should not dally here.” 

The horses’ hooves clacked loudly on the wooden planks as the tensed group moved forward. Boromir noted how all unconsciously rested his hand on his weapon of choice: Aragorn and Halbarad the sword, Malbeorn the crossbow, and Rowgond the mace. Feeling the pommel of his own sword cool against his palm, Boromir restlessly looked about. 

They were three quarters of the way across when the bridge suddenly emitted a loud snap. The horses started and snorted nervously. “What—“ Rowgond nervously began to ask. Whatever he intended to say was quickly drowned by the sound of splintering wood. 

“The beams have been sawed!” roared Aragorn from the rear. “Ride!” 

The horses, sensing the imminent danger, needed no urging on the part of their riders. With terrified whinnies, they bolted across the rapidly disintegrating bridge. “Ride!” cried Aragorn again as they desperately sought to reach stable ground. The wooden beams groaned beneath them, unable to withstand the burden of the five riders and their mounts. 

Aragorn saw Malbeorn, then Halbarad and Rowgond, and then Boromir reach the opposite shore. Giving Roheryn a nudge, he tightly gripped the reins as the large stallion gave one final lunge. Just as the horse threw himself forward, the planks beneath him splintered as the final support beam on the bridge collapsed. Off balance, Roheryn leapt awkwardly and unsettled Aragorn in his saddle. The unexpected jolt caught the Ranger off-guard. Aragorn flew from the horse’s back and plunged into the raging river with a cry of dismay. 

The shock of the river’s icy coldness hit him like a fist. Water roared past his ears and rushed into his nose and mouth. He was going to drown. Suddenly, before the torrential current made away with him, a pair of hands shot out of nowhere and grabbed him. Aragorn gasped as he was pulled to the surface. 

Coughing and shaking, the Ranger looked to thank his rescuer. “Boromir?” 

Boromir shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “I saw the last beam fall and I was closest to the water. It was mere luck that I managed to catch you as soon as you fell.” 

Halbarad clapped Aragorn’s back as he began to splutter and cough again. Rowgond looked somewhat pale but no worse for the wear, and Malbeorn had managed to subdue a very skittish Roheryn. Aragorn smiled to himself when he caught the veteran Ranger’s grumbling about sprouting a few more grey hairs. 

“There is no sense in waiting for our enemies to come for us,” said a very wet Aragorn as he took Roheryn’s reins from Malbeorn. 

Rowgond turned to survey the non-existent Last Bridge. “How are we going to get back?” 

Boromir grinned. “We can always swim.” 

* * * 

Legolas could not have prayed for a better opportunity than the one he currently found himself presented with. There was the Dwarf, bumbling along the riverbank and far too interested in the stones half-buried in the Bruinen’s muddy banks—completely alone. 

Orimhedil, who was supposed to be keeping watch with Legolas (or, as Legolas rightly suspected, keeping watch over Legolas in Glorfindel’s absence), had nodded off and was resting most comfortably within the tree branches. _‘He will wake up the moment he senses the slightest hint of danger,’_ reasoned Legolas as he regarded the sleeping Elf. Turning his head back to the Dwarf, he narrowed his eyes dangerously. _‘The sweetest revenge shall be mine, stunted one.’_

Gimli picked up a large pebble and began rinsing it in the rushing waters. Behind him, a furious Elf flitted from tree to tree with the utmost stealth. In true Wood Elf fashion, Legolas melted into the forest around him, using even the tiniest leaf and shadow to his advantage. He continued on as such while Gimli walked further and further down the shoreline. 

“Ah, what have we here?” muttered Gimli happily as a multicolored sedimentary rock caught his well-trained eye. He stomped over to investigate. The stone, which was nestled snugly against a large oak tree, was ribboned with hues of rose, steel, white, black, and periwinkle. “Marvelous,” whistled the Dwarf in appreciation. Placing one hand against the tree trunk for support, he knelt down to examine his treasure further. 

Legolas silently walked out from the shadows and stood a good distance behind the Dwarf. Placing the ball of his foot on a brittle stick, he deliberately began grounding his boot into the earth. The dry wood crackled loudly. 

Gimli stiffened when the snapping of a single branch at his back reached his ears. Still on his knees, the Dwarf rotated himself slowly. The sight that greeted his eyes was enough to make his blood run cold. 

Legolas stood tall and imposing as a marble statue. He remained motionless with the exception of the foot he continued to ground slowly. His face was completely void of any emotion, save his eyes, which glittered murderously. Gimli was utterly terrified, for he had never witnessed an enraged Elf, much less been on the receiving end of that anger. 

Without warning, the Elf suddenly unslung the bow from his back, nocked an arrow, and fired. 

Gimli only managed to open his mouth in shock before the arrow slammed into him. The force of the blow sent him reeling back into the trunk of the oak tree. The last things he saw were a green-feathered arrow protruding from his forehead and the fair, smirking face of an Elf. 

******* 

_*gasp* Legolas! What have you done?!?!_

_*The Greyflood, Hoarwell and Mitheithel. The Greyflood branches off into two tributaries: the Hoarwell and the Loudwater. “Mitheithel” is the Elvish name for Hoarwell. Since Aragorn was raised by the elves, it is only natural that he would refer to it as such._

Eniamil berries: “ _Rubus eniamis._ Relative of the rose family. Round, plump red fruit comprised of numerous brambles. Stands approximately two to three feet in height. Berries produced in the late fall months. Spade-shaped leaves grow in alternating configuration, appear pale glossy green in color with toothed edges. Species native to the northern climates of Middle Earth, preferring the edges of thinly forested areas and semi-loose topsoil.” 

\--Bryn’s Guide of Imaginary Middle-earth Species, Chapter One “You Actually Invented a Berry”, page one. 


	11. The Brilliance of Legolas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

Time itself paused for several heartbeats as the land silently came to terms with the Elder’s cold-blooded murder. The wind’s breath caught in gilded autumn leaves and all creatures of the forest froze in disbelief. Even the surging Bruinen was rendered momentarily dammed.

But… Lo and behold! No mark of injury stained the stone-like Dwarf sprawled against the bole of the sturdy oak tree. There were no traces of blood to be found, and perhaps, even more curiously, was the fact that he continued to breathe. What strange twist of Fate was this? 

Legolas prodded the unconscious Dwarf with the tip of his bow. He had never seen a Dwarf faint before, and found the experience quite hilarious, to say the least. He supposed, given the shock were great enough, even the most powerful of folk would not be immune. Why, one such as Elrond or maybe even Mithrandir would undoubtedly have fainted had Legolas pulled such a stunt on either of them. Still, the fainting of a Dwarf—this one in particular—was so much sweeter. Stifling a snicker, the Elf quickly went to work. 

His slender hands efficiently removed the helm Gimli wore about his head. Just as he suspected, the inlaid metal work had prevented Legolas’s arrow shaft (the Elf had removed the arrowhead and blunted the tip to ensure the arrow would not pierce anything) from causing even a minute scratch. Legolas pushed down the thought of regret that rose in the back of his mind. Yes, it was a pity the Dwarf came away completely unscathed, but it would probably turn out to his advantage in the long run. 

Discarding the helm, Legolas walked swiftly to the riverbank and began scooping up wet sand. Inspiration struck, and the Elf retrieved the helm, dumping a generous amount of sand into it. The hat could carry much more than his hands were able to. He carried the sand-filled helm back to the unconscious Dwarf and began dumping the wet dirt onto Gimli’s arms and legs. After several trips to the riverbank, Legolas decided he had a sufficient amount. 

“And now, my diminutive adversary, you are in need of a slight head wound.” Grinning, the Elf pulled out his canteen of berry juice and poured the red liquid down the front of Gimli’s face. 

He reached into the small pouch around his waist and fished about for the bread roll he had deposited there earlier. Once he found the roll, he tore it up a bit and dumped the remaining contents of berry juice on it. He then stuck the saturated bread to Gimli’s forehead. 

Sitting patiently upon the ground, Legolas drew one knee up to his chest and wrapped his arms around the leg. The Elf waited gleefully for the Dwarf to revive himself. 

_‘I have not had this much amusement since I switched the blades on my brothers’ spears,’_ he thought merrily. Legolas had replaced them with off-balanced blades, and his brothers had been at a complete loss as to explain their terrible aim. He sobered a bit when he recalled he had only been about 40 years old at the time. 

* * * 

Gimli felt his eyelids fluttering open. _‘Has Mahal taken me?’_ he wondered. 

He blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight. A shadow fell across his face, and the Dwarf was horrified to discover that not only was he still living, but that the Elf intent on killing him was waiting until he was awake to finish the job. 

“Soon you shall go back to the earth from whence you came, stunted one.” The flinty edge to the Elf’s voice caused Gimli to jump. “You have bled much.” 

Gimli frantically tried to strike his foe, but found he could not. He had already lost too much blood, and his body felt as though a great weight had been placed upon it. His arms and legs were useless. He had not the strength to lift them. 

“You murderous beast,” he cried in a raspy voice. Blood was streaming down his forehead. Gimli knew his time was growing shorter. Funny, he never realized just how sweet and berrylike his blood tasted. 

He watched as the Elf grinned maliciously. The fair face hovered directly in front of his; bright eyes mocking and thin aristocratic lips arched in a delicate sneer. What did the monster have in store for him? 

Gimli blanched as the Elf slowly reached towards his forehead. “What do you want?” he whispered hoarsely. 

Cruel laughter sprang from Legolas’ lips, like ice cracking across a pond. “Why, Master Stub, I intend to follow old Elvish custom. The only delight greater than killing an enemy is consuming him.” 

So great was his abhorrence that Gimli could not even cry out as the Elf carefully plucked something from his forehead and brought it to his mouth. Gimli’s eyes widened in disbelief: he was not witnessing, in his dying moments, an Elf consuming the inner contents of his skull. The Morquendi were said to be dangerous, but this… this was unthinkable. 

Legolas fought to keep a straight face as he took a large bite of bread. Setting his mouth into what he hoped resembled a snarl (instead of a huge grin), he made sure to let the crimson berry juice stream down his chin. Baring his teeth, the archer reached for another piece. 

Dwarves have never been counted among the screaming folk, but then again, Elves have never been counted among the cannibals. Before passing out a second time, Gimli screamed loud enough to make even the most skeptical banshee proud. 

* * * 

Legolas fled to the shadowed green safety of the forest as fast as his legs would carry him. Unfortunately, the feat proved to be most difficult, as he could not seem to stop laughing. Staggering crazily, he collapsed in a fit of helpless mirth. 

_‘He screamed! The Dwarf actually screamed! Ai, I shall remember that for all eternity.’_

Biting the sleeve of his tunic to prevent himself from laughing too loudly, Legolas was assailed by visions of Gimli’s panic-stricken face and wide eyes. He was overcome by another fit of snickering. 

* * * 

Glorfindel and Glóin charged through the trees, weapons drawn and ready to hew down whatever foe stood in their way. Glorfindel, being of a swifter nature, was the first to reach the fallen Gimli. He quickly surveyed the scene. 

The Dwarf lay against the base of an oaken tree trunk. His legs and arms appeared to be packed down by a good amount of wet sand, blood had flowed down his face—and what in the name of Elbereth was that substance sticking to his forehead? 

The Elf lord approached cautiously and sheathed his sword when he sensed no imminent danger. Glóin, puffing from the unexpected exertion, let out a cry of grief when he saw it was his son who lay still and silent. “Alas! My only son has fallen,” he sobbed in anguish. 

Glorfindel furrowed his brow and knelt down to the unconscious Dwarf. “Nay, he still lives,” assured the Elf. “How curious, I do not think this is blood.” Reaching out to Gimli’s forehead, he pulled away the substance stuck to the Dwarf and gave it an experimental sniff. 

“What is it?” asked Glóin, settling down as he noticing his son was still breathing. 

Glorfindel blinked and rolled the bread between his fingers. “Bread, I think. And berry juice.” He gave himself an experimental taste just to be certain. 

Unfortunately, Gimli chose to regain consciousness at that exact moment, and was treated to the sight of Glorfindel repeating Legolas’ cannibalistic actions. It was all too much to handle. A strangled sob escaped his throat and the poor Dwarf’s mind left him for the unheard of third time that day. 

Glóin had no idea what to make of the whole matter. Turning to Glorfindel he opened his mouth several times, but could not seem to find his tongue. 

By this time, the Elves Orimhedil, Rithol, and Fanlin, along with the third member of the Dwarven party Barin had all sprinted to the vicinity. 

“What has happened?” cried Rithol in alarm, her pretty Elven face wrought with worry. 

“Gimli!” shouted Barin as he rushed to his fallen comrade. 

Glorfindel took immediate control. “There has been a strange mishap, but all is well. Rithol, please help Barin and Glóin carry Gimli back to camp. Fanlin and Orimhedil, return to your posts.” 

Orimhedil turned to the golden-haired Elf lord. Glorfindel was struck with the realization that Legolas was nowhere to be found. “Where is Legolas?” both Elves asked one another in unison. 

“Orimhedil, I left him under your watch to ensure…” Glorfindel trailed off. He had told Orimhedil to watch Legolas to ensure that the young Elf would not attempt to carry out any sort of revenge. 

His suspicions were further confirmed when he tripped over a discarded helm lying on the ground. Glorfindel reached down to pick it up. Clearly, the helm belonged to Gimli. His grey eyes narrowed. A green-fletched arrow shaft stuck accusingly from the helm’s rim. Only Legolas’ arrows were marked with green. 

Orimhedil watched woefully as Glorfindel swore and marched off into the forest. “Let us hope the young Prince fares better than the Balrog,” he said softly to no one in particular. The trees rustled in agreement. 


	12. Silver Is the Color of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

Elongated shadows stretched and crawled further across rain-slicked slopes as the sun sank gratefully into the western horizon. Gandalf paused to glance southward before turning his attention back to the task at hand. _‘May your friends prove their worth, my dear Frodo. I leave you in their charge for the time being.’_

“Come, Shadowfax,” called the wizard. “We will be able to reach Merry easier from the foot of this cliff. Hurry, the light fades.” 

The stallion snorted and tossed his head. They were supposed to be chasing the crebain flock. Gandalf planted his staff firmly on the ground and placed one hand upon his hip. The two had been arguing for the better part of an hour. “Do not argue with me on this! I have already explained it to you—Merry will be of great importance during the upcoming battle.” 

Shadowfax flared his nostrils. “For the last time, I am not exactly sure what his role will be. I only know that it is important!” 

The silvery-white horse merely flicked his tail and stomped his forefoot: _Crebain flock_. 

“O for the love of Mandos!” swore Gandalf, throwing up his hands in despair. “King of the Mearas, my staff! Bah! Son of the Mules I name you, stubborn beast!” 

Shadowfax flattened his ears and neighed in indignation. He was most certainly not a mule, and the Istari was sorely mistaken if he believed otherwise. “Well fine then,” snapped Gandalf. “If you are so set on following the birds, by all means, go ahead—” Shadowfax whinnied victoriously and readied himself to resume their hunt. “—I, on the other hand, shall occupy myself rescuing this hobbit.” Gandalf gestured towards the cliff ledge, where Merry lay tangled below in a pine tree. 

The great stallion turned and glared at the wizard. One of them had mule blood flowing in his veins, and it certainly was not Shadowfax. “Look at it this way,” reasoned the wizard as they hazardously slipped and slid down the wet mountainside, “you shall have more chances to run after we retrieve Merry. First, we must race back to Imladris, then we race back over the mountains to catch the flock… Ai, Valar.” Gandalf stopped his conversation abruptly and gazed upward at the formidable cliff face. They had reached its foot, and it appeared the wizard had sorely misjudged the cliff’s height. Merry was, in actuality, more easily reached from the top of the cliff than from its base. 

Gandalf tugged at the wide brim of his hat and sniffed with embarrassment. Shadowfax let forth a neigh that sounded suspiciously oath-like. The horse turned swiftly on his hind legs, almost unseating Gandalf in the process, and furiously refused to trek back up the slick, muddy terrain. Gandalf nudged Shadowfax with his heels, yet still the horse would not budge. 

The grey wizard slid off his steed’s back in resignation and, hiking up his robes, began to plod diligently up the slope. Using his staff as an anchor, Gandalf thrust it into the earth and pulled himself forward. Several sturdy trees also aided the wizard in his progress. The task became more and more difficult as the mountain grew steeper, and soon he found himself battling the combined forces of mud and gravity. 

Pausing momentarily to catch his breath and readjust the shoe he nearly lost to the wet earth, Gandalf glanced back over his shoulder to see how Shadowfax was faring. The stallion actually had the audacity to lie down in a particularly muddy patch and began languidly rolling around in the muck. The wizard wondered how the horse would react if he were to suddenly turn into, say, a pig. Chuckling quietly to himself at the thought of the proud Shadowfax squealing in pig-like fury, Gandalf turned and resolutely resumed his climb. 

He had almost reached the top when his feet suddenly slipped out from under him. Back down the mountainside the wizard slithered, narrowly avoiding numerous trees and boulders, and landing (much to the amusement of Shadowfax) in an undignified heap at his exact point of origin. 

Gandalf struggled to his feet and attempted to wipe the cold mud from his face with the back of his hand. “Ugh,” he grunted in disgust as he examined his tangled beard. Shadowfax wiggled his ears and lips while snorting profusely. “Stop laughing at me,” Gandalf retorted. “I look no worse than you. Now come, I’ve enough of these games. We must reach the top before nightfall.” Luckily, Shadowfax felt the wizard had suffered enough, and to Gandalf’s great relief, complied with his rider’s request. 

* 

When at last the muddy duo reached the summit, dusk blanketed the Misty Mountains. Stars winked and twinkled in the darkening sky, and the chill air bit at the wizard and stallion with frosty teeth. Gandalf muttered a quiet spell, and a soft light appeared at the end of his staff. Shadowfax’s breath hung in misty puffs as he grumpily watched the wizard shuffle about the woods. 

“Ah, here we are,” exclaimed Gandalf with satisfaction. With forceful tugs, the wizard began pulling down a thick vine wound tightly around a towering beech tree. Dragging the vine to the edge of the cliff, he knotted one end of it around a solid tree stump. The other end of the makeshift rope he threw over the ledge. 

Giving the vine one last experimental tug, Gandalf eased himself over the cliff’s edge. “Wish me luck,” he called to Shadowfax. The stallion ignored him. 

Slowly but surely the wizard made his way towards Merry. In the waning light, the hobbit was just barely visible. The wind did not help matters either; it buffeted the wizard against the cliff wall in powerful gusts. The previously wet trees and earth had begun to freeze, making already wet terrain even slicker. _‘He shall be half frozen by the time I reach him!’_ thought Gandalf in alarm as the wind shoved him against a boulder for the umpteenth time. Wincing, he increased the pace of his downward descent. 

In the several hours since he spotted Merry, Gandalf had not seen the hobbit move once. As he drew nearer, the severity of the hobbit’s injuries became more apparent. Judging by the angle at which he lay in the tree, Merry was most certainly suffering a broken leg and shoulder. An angry red gash marred his right temple, and his face held an unusual grey pallor. 

Reaching forward and struggling for footholds, the wizard grasped the icy branches of the tree and began pulling himself towards the unconscious hobbit. The bitter scent of broken pine branches flooded his nose, and the wind caused the tree to shake unnervingly. It was a miracle Merry had landed in it at all. 

“Merry,” the wizard whispered urgently. He gave the hobbit several gentle taps on the cheek, knitting his brows together as he noted the icy temperature of the other's skin. Merry’s lips had a bluish tint to them. _‘He is freezing to death,’_ Gandalf thought worriedly. _‘I shall have to move him as quickly as possible.’_

Grabbing the young hobbit’s unbroken arm and silently grateful Merry was not awake to feel his methods, Gandalf tugged the hobbit closer to him. Merry remained limp as a rag doll and his deadweight proved to be extremely challenging to move. Gandalf panted in exertion as he attempted to dislodge the hobbit’s foot from closely-knit pine boughs. 

“That’s it… Just… a… little… more,” he grunted, roughly jerking the hobbit. At last, the tree’s branches conceded and Gandalf was able to lift Merry out by the torso. The hobbit’s head lolled as the wizard threw him over his shoulder. 

“Oof, you are quite a bit heavier than you look! Steady, steady!” Gandalf tightly grasped the shouldered hobbit with one hand and the rope in the other as the wind coughed up a nasty blast of air. Unable to maintain a foothold on the icy rocks and frozen soil, Gandalf suddenly found himself swaying to and fro on a twisting vine rope. 

He stuck his elbow out to shield Merry as they came in contact with the cliff wall. The elbow cracked most painfully, and the jolt of the meeting caused Merry to roll onto the wizard’s neck. “MMmmmf!” Gandalf received a mouthful of tunic and felt his hat go flying off his head. He was becoming uncomfortably aware of just how cold the night was. _‘This does not bode well,’_ thought the wizard, trying to shift Merry to a more comfortable position while at the same time avoiding the wall. _‘And I was rather fond of that hat.’_

He lifted his eyes in surprise as the rope began moving upward. Had they been captured? The vine continued to be hauled in, and Gandalf grimly awaited whatever fate rested atop the mountain. 

* 

Over the edge of the cliff they were brought, but the vine did not stop there. Gandalf and Merry were dragged along the ground for several meters before the wizard finally shouted “STOP!” The rope ceased moving as quickly as it had begun. Gandalf sat up and gently wrapped Merry in his cloak. He looked up just in time to see the large head of Shadowfax looming in front of him. The stallion held a piece of the rope in his teeth, and had a decidedly smug air about him. Gandalf chuckled. “I should have known it was you when we were dragged the extra distance. You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” 

Shadowfax sniffed arrogantly and stretched his aching jaws. Gandalf gave the horse an appreciative pat on the flank before stooping down to gather up Merry. 

They charged off into the night towards Rivendell, and Gandalf could not help but notice the definite strut in the stallion’s gait. _‘As if his ego could not get any bigger,’_ the wizard thought ruefully. _‘I suppose I shall have to deflate it myself.’_

* * * 

A crescent-shaped harvest moon leered against a backdrop of inky blackness. The three hobbits huddled pitifully on the icy ground as raven-feathered crebain roosted for a few hours in darkened tree branches. As best Frodo could guess, they were probably close to Hollin. He had no way of knowing for sure. 

“Mister Frodo,” whispered Sam through chattering teeth, “I don’t think we can go on much longer like this. Leastways, I know I can’t.” The faithful gardener glanced over at the quietly sobbing form of Pippin. “Don’t think Pip will make it either.” 

The younger hobbit had been inconsolable once he had regained consciousness only to discover his cousin missing. Frodo and Sam had relayed the events as kindly as possible, but there was no real way to soften the blow of Merry’s loss. Nothing they could say would bring him back, and Pippin felt his absence more keenly than the others. “It’s my fault,” he sobbed, “He tried to grab me by the ankles because I cried out to him. If only he had run away! If only I had not begged him to save me!” 

Frodo curled up tighter against his two companions in the hopes of some warmth. He felt sick and dizzy from being shuttled across the sky all day, and his many wounds stung and burned. “We’re in a nice pickle now,” Sam continued quietly, his speech sounding strangely mumbled due to the fat lip he had received, courtesy of a particularly nasty crow. “Yes we are.” 

“Why don’t we just give them the Ring?” Pippin suddenly whispered, sniffling loudly. 

“No!” hissed Sam. “Mister Frodo, don’t!” 

Frodo sighed wearily and regarded his two faithful friends. Pippin’s eyes were red and swollen from crying, adding to his already beaten appearance. Both Sam and Pippin were covered with numerous scratches, bruises and dried blood. Frodo supposed he looked no better. “Pippin, I don’t think it would do much good. If they just wanted the Ring, they could have taken it long ago. I think they need us for something as well. What, I don’t know.” 

The three remained silent for a while as each conjured up his own personal vision of what terrors lie waiting for them. “At least Merry won’t be tortured,” Pippin murmured, a sob hanging painfully on the edge of his voice and burning his throat. He swallowed and licked his lips. “Frodo?” he asked timidly. 

“Mmm?” 

“Do you… Do you think he felt anything? I mean, when he hit the ground?” 

Frodo shivered and winced. “I don’t know, Pippin. I hope not.” 

“Frodo?” 

“Yes?” 

Pippin began shaking with grief and cold. “I want to go home.” 

“We all do Pippin,” mumbled Sam, his lip re-splitting. “We all do. But it’s like the Gaffer always says: _‘You can sit and wish all you want, but wishing won’t get you nowhere and sitting gets you even less.’”_

Frodo felt an unexpected burst of strength surge through him. He was cold, injured, starving, and quite possibly on his way to face a particularly brutal death, but he would not let his friends fall to ruin on account of him. They were going to escape. He was not sure how, but they would find a way. “We’re going to escape,” he stated, the conviction in his voice surprising even himself. 

Sam and Pippin remained silent as his words sank in. “How?” ventured Pippin after a few moments. “We can’t. Unless we… unless we… Merry…” His voice broke and he softly began to cry again. 

“I don’t know. But we will.” 

* 

Fifteen minutes later, the hobbits established that in order to escape, they needed weapons of some sort. Unfortunately, between the three of them, their persons contained One Ring, three gold coins, a cracked wooden button, and an oversized lump of lint. 

“I don’t think there’s much we can do with this,” Sam stated ruefully. 

“There must be something we can use,” insisted Frodo. He glanced at the crebain. The winged creatures were beginning to rouse themselves and would soon continue their journey. Time was running short. 

“The only other thing I have is my lucky coin,” a disheartened Pippin whispered. “Though I don’t suppose it’s very lucky.” 

“Your what?” asked Sam. 

“My lucky coin,” repeated Pippin. “Do you remember when we had that singing contest during the summer festival a while back?” 

Sam nodded. That had been the first time he noticed Rosie Cotton. She had been wearing a dress as green as… Sam pushed those thoughts aside. Rosie was far away, safe in the Shire. And he, Samwise Gamgee, had been kidnapped by crebain and was now lying in frozen mud on Valar knew what mountaintop in the middle of nowhere. Painful regret rose and swiftly washed over him. No, that was a different time. A different life. A different world. 

“I was so nervous,” continued Pippin at a low whisper. “And Merry—“ he stopped and anguish stole briefly across his face. Taking a deep breath, he continued. “Bilbo told me it was a magic coin given to him by the King of the Wood-Elves and that it would bring me good luck. I won, remember? And Bilbo let me keep the coin. I’ve had it ever since.” 

Reaching into his breast pocket, Pippin pulled out an extremely shiny silver coin. It was about the circumference of a large walnut and well polished. He sighed and rubbed the coin, then returned it to its pocket. “It’s not a weapon, though. Unless,” he half-laughed, half-sobbed, “we want to shine them to death.” 

Sam blinked. “Birds like shiny things,” he said slowly. 

Frodo felt a ripple of excitement wash over all three of them. They had, in their possession, something unexpected. Something they could use… But how? 

Before any plans could be formed, they found themselves under the now-standard abuse of crebain jabs and scratches. The birds snatched the trio up with sharp talons and sped off into the gradually lightening sky. 

Yet unbeknownst to the dark beasts, a glimmer of hope shone faintly within the hearts of their captives. All the hobbits needed now was a bit of luck, perhaps they had found it in the form of a single Elven coin. 


	13. Arda Hath No Fury Like an Angry Glorfindel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

CHARACTER LIST

_~Western Scouting Party~_

Malbeorn- a veteran Ranger 

Rowgond- a young Ranger from Hollin 

Halbarad- the Ranger closest to Aragorn (give credit to Tolkien for this one, I didn’t create him) 

Boromir 

Aragorn 

_~Eastern Scouting Party~_

Rithol- female Elf from Rivendell 

Orimhedil- male Elf from Rivendell 

Barin- token Dwarf. From the Lonely Mountain 

Glóin- Father of Gimli 

Glorfindel- Father of Legolas (whoa, what was that!?! I certainly hope you did a double take. No relation to Legolas whatsoever. Making sure you’re on top of things… Good? Okay then, let’s move on.) 

Legolas 

Gimli 

******* 

Hardly an hour after their departure from the remains of the Last Bridge, the western scouting party found themselves caught amidst a driving storm of sleet. Icy rain fell from the slate-colored sky in thick pellets, and the wind swept it forward at an almost horizontal angle. The group quickly discovered their hooded cloaks provided little protection from the weather as they were mercilessly pounded. 

The East-West Road soon became a myriad of ankle-deep puddles and slush. The horses sloshed through the mess, heads bowed and lowered in the driving sleet. Aragorn shivered and felt his numbed hands fumble with Roheryn’s reins. He had been wet to begin with due to his plunge into the river, and the icy rain was not helping matters. 

“I fear my mace is rusting.” Boromir glanced gratefully at Rowgond. The young man’s comment was the closest any of them would come to admitting they needed to stop. 

Malbeorn, who had the sharpest vision and therefore rode at the head of the party, turned to face his companions. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he sought out Aragorn. “If my memory serves me correctly, a small village lies ahead. Shall we find shelter until this storm abates, or press onward?” 

Aragorn did not need long to consider the options. Shelter of any kind sounded wonderful, for he was beginning to feel like a giant block of ice. “I fear my sword begins to rust as well,” he began. 

“Aye,” chimed both Halbarad and Boromir, nodding in agreement. “Our weapons shall be ruined.” 

Aragorn almost smiled to himself as he was suddenly reminded of the time he had been in a similar situation while journeying with Legolas. Legolas would have a fit if he were presently here to witness the way each refused to admit his need for rest. It was a form of mortal pride that utterly confounded the Elven archer and never failed to drive him to exasperation. “Let us stop at the village,” said Aragorn. “It will provide us with a chance to dry our weapons. Besides, I do not think we shall miss much in this weather, for it is difficult to see—much less scout—as it is.” 

Halbarad, Boromir and Rowgond all murmured in agreement. “Very well,” said Malbeorn, the only member of the group who seemed unaffected by the weather, “we stop at Fenadoch.”* 

Leaning over to Aragorn, Boromir whispered quietly. “I almost believe he prefers this weather. Are you sure he is but a Dúnadan?” 

Aragorn smiled in reply, frozen rain beading and dripping from his dark hood. “I often wondered the same when I was younger. I still have no explanation for his ridiculous tolerance, though I am fairly sure he is as mortal as the rest of us.” 

Over Aragorn’s right shoulder, Halbarad snorted. “I am still not convinced that grizzled fox is one of us.” He turned to Boromir. “Be thankful you never had to serve in any of his campaigns. He nearly drove us to exhaustion in our younger years. Even the Elves were amazed.” 

* * * 

The chilled party rode into Fenadoch and quickly made for the nearest tavern, which was named ‘The Singing Mûmak.’ “How odd,” commented Rowgond as he caught sight of the tavern’s battered wooden sign. A golden Oliphaunt had been crudely painted upon it, along with the establishment’s name. “I have yet to see one that is either golden or singing.” 

Halbarad paused to glance at the short, light-haired Ranger before dismounting. “You also have yet to travel as widely as the rest of us. But do not worry, young Rowgond. I am sure we shall stumble across a singing Mûmak before our return to Rivendell.” 

The others chuckled as they led their steeds into the warm straw-scented stables. Rowgond rolled his eyes. “When cows fly, Master Halbarad,” he retorted. 

Halbarad nodded in deadpan seriousness. “Yes, that too.” 

After removing their horses’ tack and giving the animals a well-deserved rubdown, Boromir and the Rangers left the stables and headed for their respective rooms. They quickly changed to drier, more comfortable clothing and made plans to rejoin in the tavern’s common room. 

* * * 

The main room of The Singing Mûmak was boisterous and smoky. Light flickered pleasantly from a glowing fireplace and numerous torches fastened along the walls. Weary travelers, rejuvenated by food and drink, mingled and jested amongst the locals. Boromir drummed his fingers on the oaken table as Aragorn sat down next to him. The group had purposely chosen an indiscreet table in the corner of the room. 

Aragorn slowly reclined until his back was leaning against the wall and brought forth his pipe. It crackled as he lit it. The Ranger brought the pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply, his eyes darting alertly around the room as he took everything in. “I should say we have chosen one of the more popular establishments of this town.” 

Boromir nodded in agreement. He raised his hand in recognition as he caught sight of Halbarad and Rowgond weaving their way through the crowd. The savory smell of food wafted through the air, making him realize just how hungry he was. 

“By my sword, I’m starving,” Halbarad announced when he was within earshot of Aragorn and Boromir. “I could eat a whole flying cow.” 

The four laughed as Rowgond and Halbarad sat at the table’s heavy wooden bench. They had not long to wait for the fifth member of their party; soon the wiry frame of Malbeorn could be seen slipping through the masses. When at last the veteran ranger joined his companions, the group beckoned a serving maid to place their orders. 

A pretty maid with rosy cheeks and a thick braid of honeyed hair hurried over to the men. “What may I order for you, good sirs?” the girl asked shyly, unable to keep the glint of curiosity from her green eyes, yet unwilling to look directly into their faces. 

Her eyes fell upon Boromir, and a deep blush flushed her rosy cheeks as he smiled kindly at her. Malbeorn chuckled and even Aragorn had a difficult time restraining a snicker. The young girl was clearly smitten with the man of Gondor. “What would you recommend, my good lady?” asked Halbarad. 

“Well sir, our ale is known as some of the finest in these parts,” she stated proudly before smiling shyly and ducking her head. “And on a cold and blustery day as today, I would suggest a bit of stew.” 

Malbeorn grunted in approval. “Then ale and stew it shall be,” he called. 

The pretty maid gave a polite nod, and with a final glance in Boromir’s direction, turned and headed towards the kitchens. 

Rowgond leaned over to Boromir, a huge grin plastered upon his face. “What may I order for you, _siiiiirs,”_ he drawled, raising his voice to a feminine pitch. Boromir gave him a good-natured punch in the shoulder as Rowgond began fluttering his lashes. He was just about to respond to the jest when snatches of a conversation from a few tables down caught their attention. 

A burly peasant farmer pointed his soupspoon at his neighbor as he emphasized the gossip. “…a group of them, all clad in dark clothing. They caused the Last Bridge to collapse—I hear they just rode over it and the thing crumbled. Sounds like the work of some dark force to me.” 

His neighbor, a scrawny-looking man missing several teeth, shook his head in disapproval. “These are dark times, my friend,” he whistled. “I hear strange things are abroad… I wonder if it was those black riders they saw over in Bree.” 

The peasant farmer took another bite of hot stew and swallowed. “Aye, I would say it was. And I heard the ones on the bridge were headed in this direction. We’d best be on the lookout for them.” 

A sickening feeling of dread sank into the western scouting party. Boromir and Halbarad grimaced. Rowgond slid a bit lower under the table, and Malbeorn pulled his hood over his head. “Oh no,” moaned Aragorn. 

* * * 

The wrath of Glorfindel radiated through the forest in scorching blasts. Legolas felt them before the enraged captain moved into earshot, which was an impressive feat considering Orkish armies have tread quieter paths. Birds shot into the sky in full-fledged terror as he stormed by, and even the trees and ferns drew back their leaves in fright. Glorfindel—Captain of Imladris, famed warrior of Gondolin, and slayer of Balrogs—was on the rampage. 

And if he had his way, Mirkwood would be short one prince by nightfall. 

* 

Legolas sat amidst the branches of a slender ash tree. He had learned, through personal experience, that one does not run away from punishment. Doing so only increased the severity. _‘Besides,’_ he reasoned, _‘I have faced the wrath of Father many a time. I am sure Glorfindel can do no worse.’_

He began to seriously question this once he felt the first wave of anger hit him. Glorfindel was going to kill him. 

* 

The golden-haired Elf lord stormed through the forest. Where was Legolas? “Son of Thranduil,” he roared, “Show yourself at once!” His voice shook the land like thunder and the silence that followed was deafening. 

Legolas took a deep breath and jumped down from the branches of the ash tree as Glorfindel stomped by. He landed lightly upon the ground and quickly straightened. “Lord Glorfindel.” 

Glorfindel spun around, his face livid. He stiffly walked towards the young prince until the two were literally standing toe to toe. Legolas lifted his chin and bravely met Glorfindel’s dagger-like gaze. He had committed no crime, and would not let Glorfindel intimidate him. 

Upon observing the slender Elf’s defiant stance, Glorfindel thought it small wonder Thranduil was often pushed to the limit by the antics of his youngest son. 

The captain of Rivendell inhaled deeply and crossed his arms over his chest. “What, in the name of Eru, were you thinking?” he hissed. Legolas took note of the strained tone to the Elf lord’s voice. His father’s would become more tightened and strained the angrier he was. If Glorfindel’s tone was any indication of his anger level… Legolas realized he was, to use the old Wood-Elven term, “in quite the nest of brambles.” 

“I merely wanted to punish the Dwarf.” 

“Punish the Dwarf?” Glorfindel’s voice arose several notches. “First and foremost, ‘the Dwarf’ has a name—Gimli. You shall refer to him as such from now on. Secondly,” he bellowed, “I informed you he had already been punished for his actions! You had no right, Legolas Greenleaf, to take action of your own.” 

“I had every right to do so!” protested Legolas. “Whatever punishment he received obviously failed to make an impression. He certainly did not seem sorry for his actions last evening! Did you not hear what he said to me? He threatened to do it again.” 

“He did no such thing, Legolas. And I assure you; Glóin dealt severe punishment unto Gimli for his actions. Gimli would not dare repeat them.” 

Legolas opened his mouth in disbelief. That had been Gimli’s punishment? A father-son chat? “You let his father deliver the punishment?” he cried, “What justice is there to be found in that? His father probably patted him on the back and congratulated him on a fine effort!” 

“As I am congratulating you?” Glorfindel snapped. He desperately fought the urge to throttle the young prince. Legolas could be amazingly wooden-headed. 

“Elves are different,” replied the young Elf flatly. “Dwarves, on the other hand, are prideful, stubborn and argumentative.” 

“If that is not grass calling the leaf green!” exclaimed Glorfindel in exasperation. “Based upon your reasoning, I would name YOU amongst their kin.” 

Legolas felt himself flush in indignation. He was most definitely not prideful, stubborn… and argumentative… 

Elbereth, what if Glorfindel was right. 

“I didn’t hurt him,” he replied half-heartedly, more to himself than to the Elf lord. 

“Didn’t hurt him? DIDN’T HURT HIM?” Glorfindel exploded. “Legolas, you could have killed him! I have never, in all my years, seen an Elf behave so irresponsibly, with so little respect for life. It boggles the mind!” 

Legolas lowered his eyes and sighed. As much as he was loath admit it, Glorfindel WAS right. He focused on Glorfindel’s hands—which were balled into fists. Valar, Glorfindel was furious. Legolas suddenly felt a wave of shame rush over him. What had he been thinking? Why had he allowed himself to fall victim to such foolish behavior? He could have seriously injured the Dwarf. 

Legolas raised his eyes to meet Glorfindel’s. “I am…sorry.” He swallowed. Pride was difficult not to choke on. “You are right: I was rash and acted without considering the consequences. I ought to know better than to use my weapons so carelessly,” he lowered his gaze and spoke softer. “I willingly accept whatever punishment you wish to give, for I know I am deserving of it.” 

Glorfindel nodded, thankful he would not have to beat reason into the younger Elf. “Very well, then.” Legolas was going to hate him for this. “I order you to personally apologize to both Gimli and Glóin.” 

Legolas grimaced. Oh yes, his pride would be hurting for weeks. 

“And—” Legolas stiffened. “—when we reach Mirkwood, you are to inform your father of your actions.” Glorfindel watched as the young Elf’s eyes grew wider. “I am sure Thranduil will deal with you accordingly.” 

Glorfindel raised a golden brow as Legolas opened his mouth in protest. “Do you accept these terms, Prince of Mirkwood? Or perhaps I should turn you over to the Dwarven members of our party. I am sure they will think of a far more suitable punishment.” 

Legolas sighed miserably. Drawing himself up, he gave a submissive nod. “Yes, Lord Glorfindel. I accept your terms.” 

“Good, it is settled.” Glorfindel unfolded his arms. _‘That went surprisingly well,’_ he thought. _‘Mayhap Legolas is not as thickheaded as I believed. At least now he will be too preoccupied with what to tell his father and less focused on quarreling with Gimli.’_

He gave Legolas a hearty pat on the shoulder as the two Elves made their way back through the forest. Before joining the rest of the company, Glorfindel turned to his companion and imparted a final piece of advice: “Remember Legolas: _‘fight fire with fire and all that remains are the ashes.’”_

Legolas mutely nodded and forced back the smile that threatened to break across his face: visions of a screaming and burned Gimli ran through his mind. It was quite a satisfying picture. 

******* 

_*Fenadoch: A small village about an hour west of the Last Bridge. The East-West Road (or Great East Road, depending on your book) serves as the town’s main route of travel._


	14. A Slip of Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

Gimli regained consciousness with a shout of alarm. Where was he? What had happened? Why did he feel so shaky and ill? “Easy, my son.” Glóin gave him several rough pats on the shoulder. “We’ve carried you back to the banks of the river.”

Gimli groaned and struggled into a sitting position, only to discover Barin and Glóin watching him as though he might fall over any second. He washed his hand over his face and beard in confusion. 

“Master Dwarf, have a sip of this water. It will help clear your head—you fainted quite a few times.” Gimli looked up in the direction of the melodious voice. The Elf maiden, Rithol, stood before him and offered her water skin. Fainted? Who fainted? 

Gimli snorted indignantly. “I most certainly did not faint!” he rumbled. “Dwarves do not faint!” 

Barin and Glóin exchanged an uncomfortable glance. “Usually, that is the case,” began Barin cautiously. 

Rithol’s eyes widened in astonishment. “But, Master Dwarf, you fainted no less than thrice! And it is believed you twice screamed as well.” 

Two crimson spots bloomed upon Gimli’s cheeks. “I did not scream,” he hastily grumbled. “As I recall, an eagle flew overhead and let forth a cry.” 

“But the second time, I was there—“ 

“AN EAGLE!” 

Rithol stepped back in alarm at the Dwarf’s booming tone. She gave a slight bow. “As you say, Master Dwarf, it was an eagle.” A faint smile of amusement played upon her lips. The poor Dwarf, how embarrassed he must be! 

Gimli hoisted himself to his feet, waiving off the assistance of Glóin and Barin. “Where is the Elf?” he spat. He had never been subjected to such humiliation in his life. He began scouring the trees, looking for any signs of his detested foe. 

Glóin cleared his throat. “I believe you now owe Legolas an apology.” 

Gimli spun his stout body around. “Apologize?” he roared, “After what he did to me? Never!” 

Glóin crossed his arms and widened his stance. “He did you no bodily harm, my son. I seem to remember you gave him a rather frightful wound to the head.” 

“He deserved it,” growled Gimli. 

“As you deserved this?” 

Gimli rumbled in fury. His father was taking the side of the Elf—and not just any Elf, but the son of the Elder who had sent Glóin to rot in the dungeons of Mirkwood. Still, he knew better than to argue with his father. Glóin had already threatened to tell his mother Dila of Gimli’s behavior, and Gimli knew it was a threat he would not fail to carry out. “If the Elf apologizes first, then so shall I.” 

* * * 

Legolas drew himself to his full height and, drawing forth as much dignity as he could possibly muster, came to stand before the two Dwarves. The duo regarded the tall and silent figure with suspicion. Barin, who had been whetting the blade of his axe, stopped abruptly and moved to the side of his comrades. 

Glorfindel caught the eye of Glóin and sent him a quick nod of assurance. Glóin returned it, but his mistrust was evident as he addressed Legolas. “What is your business with us, Master Elf?” 

Legolas drew a deep breath. Apologizing was going to be more difficult than he originally thought. _‘That I would lower myself to apologize to a Dwarf… I am thankful Father is not here to witness my humiliation.’_ He could feel Glorfindel glaring at his back. 

“Legolas has something he wishes to say,” offered the Elf lord. 

Gimli raised a brow. The Elf prince looked as though he had swallowed his bow. _‘This might be interesting,’_ he thought. Any thoughts of an apology from himself quickly vanished. 

“I-I,” Legolas faltered. Had that been his imagination, or did the Dwarf just smirk at him? “I am sorry.” Yes, that was definitely a smirk. 

Glóin grunted and would have spoken, but Gimli beat him to it. “Sorry for what, Elf?” 

A dark look flashed over the face of Legolas. “I apologize for my… rash and irresponsible behavior towards you. It was foolish on my behalf and I know better than to act in such a manner.” 

Gimli leaned against his axe and lifted his chin. Thanks to the particularly strong dye of the Eniamil berries, his beard would be stained red for weeks. He was not going to let the haughty, self-centered prince of Mirkwood off so easily. “And?” 

Legolas blinked. “And?” he asked, confused. 

“And what else do you apologize for?” 

“Gimli—” began Glóin. 

“No, he owes us far more than a single apology.” He turned to his father. “I bet he has never apologized to anyone or anything his entire life!” 

“I owe you nothing more, Dwarf,” hissed Legolas. 

“ _Legolas_ ,” warned Glorfindel. 

Legolas closed his eyes and balled his fists. “What more would you have me apologize for, Dwar—Gimli,” he said through clenched teeth. The name “Gimli” felt harsh and grating on his tongue. 

“First,” stated Gimli imperiously, “I would have you apologize for throwing my father into a lake.” He regarded Legolas expectantly. The Elf looked as though he wanted to personally rip him apart, limb-by-limb. 

“I did not ‘throw’ him, and it was not a lake,” Legolas snapped. The hand of Glorfindel suddenly clamped tightly around his bicep. Legolas pursed his lips in fury. “I apologize for being _pushed into_ your father.” 

Glóin lifted one hand in the air. “It is long forgotten, Master Elf. Think nothing of it.” 

Gimli, however, was far from finished. “And—“ Legolas started forward, but the hand of Glorfindel gripped him tighter. The Dwarf’s pride had been severely affronted, and Legolas would have to learn he could not escape the situation completely unscathed. “—you are to apologize for suggesting an alliance betwixt the Dwarves and Sauron.” 

“Gimli,” cried Glóin, “That is enough!” 

Ignoring the commands of Glóin and Glorfindel to immediately cease his tirade, Gimli continued on. The words rumbled from his mouth with more power than thunder. “You will also apologize for locking my father in your dungeons, for your own father’s stupidity and greediness, for your pompous and conceited mannerisms, for the sheer idiocy of the mother who so foolishly borne you into this world—“ 

Unbeknownst to Gimli, the beloved Queen of Mirkwood had passed away under the most tragic of circumstances. Though the fateful day had occurred many a year ago, her loss was still grieved by the Wood-Elves and the royal family in particular. 

Legolas cried out in rage, and had it not been for the iron grip of Glorfindel, Gimli would have been slain on the spot. Glorfindel desperately held onto the writhing, twisting fury that was Legolas and attempted to drag the Elf away from the Dwarves. Things were turning out far worse than the captain of Imladris would have ever expected. 

Gimli stood rooted to the ground in shock. If the cold, calculating Legolas who had shot him was terrifying, this unhinged version of the Elf was a nightmare. Perhaps he should have apologized instead of baiting the son of Thranduil. 

The Elf had slipped back into his native Sindarin, and was spewing words that sounded terrible even without translation. Glorfindel had wrapped both arms around the Mirkwood Elf and was vainly attempting to talk some sense into him. 

“Strike the foundation and call me stone,” murmured Glóin in disbelief at Gimli’s side. “I have never seen the likes of that in all my days. I think Smaug was friendlier than he.” 

Gimli nodded dumbly. He was not exactly sure what had set the Elf off, but he had the distinct feeling he had just made things a lot worse for himself. 

* * * 

Aragorn found himself battling paranoia as he, Rowgond, Malbeorn, Boromir, and Halbarad cast furtive glances about the tavern room. The group half expected the entire place to suddenly jump forth and raise weapons against them, and several tense moments were spent awaiting the attack. Luckily, their fears proved unfounded. Not a single soul within The Singing Mûmak appeared to have noticed them. 

“I think,” whispered Rowgond, “we should leave.” 

Malbeorn leaned back and lit his pipe. “Yes, that will not call attention to us,” he replied somewhat sarcastically as he shook out the match. “We have already paid for the rooms and ordered our meal.” 

Aragorn blew out a puff of smoke and forced himself to relax. “I think we shall be fine as long as we do nothing to stand out.” He tapped the pipe stem against his lip. “Do not forget, we are Rangers—we are well-trained in areas of stealth and observance.” 

The others murmured in agreement. They spent the next several minutes awaiting the arrival of their food in contemplative silence. Boromir watched as each Ranger quietly smoked his pipe. _‘I wonder,’_ he thought, _‘if that is tradition amongst these Rangers of the North. Faramir and his men do not engage in such activities.’_ He wrinkled his nose at the smell as the billowing clouds floated upward and dissipated before they hit the ceiling. At the rate the Rangers were puffing, no one would be able to identify them through the encompassing wall of smoke. 

At last, the honey-haired maid returned with a platter of hot stews and several mugs of ale. The meal looked and smelled delicious, and Boromir felt his mouth watering in anticipation. “Here you are, good sirs,” the pretty girl announced sweetly. She began passing around the fare, giving Boromir a shy rosy-cheeked smile as she handed him a bowl of steaming stew. 

Boromir thanked her as he accepted the bowl, causing the maiden to blush almost scarlet. Rowgond nearly choked on a piece of potato at the girl’s stammered reply. “You-you’re welcome.” She began fidgeting with her thick braid and, much to the surprise of the group, suddenly blurted out, “My name is Mysian.” 

Boromir blinked. The poor girl was turning scarlet all over again. Aragorn’s shoulders shook suspiciously as he bowed his head and placed one hand over his mouth. Even the grizzled face of Malbeorn threatened to crack. 

“Oh, that is… nice,” Boromir lamely replied, caught off-guard by the maid’s frankness. Rowgond snickered. “I mean, that is a nice name. My name is Boro—“ No! Wait! He couldn’t tell her his name! “—Fara—” No, Faramir’s would not do either. Oh no, what did he just say? 

The pretty serving maid’s green eyes lit up. “Borofara?” 

“What? Er, yes,” Boromir grimaced. “Boro… Borofara is my name.” Oh sweet Valar, of all the names he could have chosen… At least his shoulder wasn’t twitching. 

“You may call me, ah, Elrond,” Halbarad announced gleefully. Aragorn glared at him. 

Not to be outdone, Rowgond chimed in. “And I,” he stated imperiously, “am known as Gil-galad.” 

The young maid paused and shot him a skeptical glance. She had obviously heard the name before, and was fairly certain it did not belong to a mortal. Halbarad began to quietly hum _“Gil-galad was an Elven-king*”_ under his breath. 

“I am most pleased to make your acquaintances, sirs… Borofara.” She curtseyed gracefully, gave Boromir one last smile, and returned to her duties. It was all the Rangers could do to keep from howling in laugher. 

* * * 

Mysian watched as the group—Borofara in particular—finished their meals and gradually worked their way through the crowed tavern. She sighed as they departed into the corridor and went to clear the group’s table. Her heart leapt when she noticed one of the men had forgotten his pipe. If she hurried, she could catch Borofara before he retired to his chambers! 

The maid quickly snatched up the pipe and went running out of the main room. Her heart fluttered madly—she was going to see Borofara! 

* * * 

It was with full stomachs and sleepy yawns that the western scouting party made way to their rooms. Rowgond groaned and patted his stomach. “I have not eaten such a wonderful meal since I left Hollin.” 

Aragorn stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “It almost feels strange to have a full stomach, does it not?” The others laughed in agreement. “We shall depart early in the morn. I hope everyone rests fitfully tonight.” 

Boromir shook his head in wonder. “I still cannot believe they thought we were the Black Riders.” 

Mysian turned the corner just in time to hear “—we were the Black Riders.” 

The pipe dropped from her nerveless hands and clattered loudly upon the floor. The five men whirled around and were greeted by the sight of the terrified serving maid backing up against the wall and opening her mouth in horror. “You’re the, you’re the—“ she stammered, eyes growing huge and wild. 

“NO! No! We are not the Black Riders,” Aragorn said urgently, throwing up his hands in as non-threatening a gesture as possible. 

The girl continued stammering and tripped as she attempted to back up. She scrambled backwards on all fours. “She’s going to scream,” warned Rowgond. 

“Shh,” begged Boromir. “We will not hurt you. Please do not—“ 

Halbarad lunged as the pretty maid opened her mouth and let out a shriek of utter terror. He quickly clamped a hand over her mouth and hauled the girl to her feet. “Stop biting me!” he yelped. The maid began to struggle and kick, her eyes wide and crazed. It took Halbarad all the strength he could muster to keep her within his grasp. 

Boromir gently placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders and spoke kindly. “Look at me,” he said. “We are not the Black Riders. I promise you this. If we let you go, will you promise not to scream?” 

The maid’s breathing came out in muffling gasps as she nodded. Halbarad cautiously removed his hand. 

The girl once again let out a shriek of terror, and once again Halbarad swiftly clamped a hand over her mouth. “Strider,” he said, looking at Aragorn, “we cannot go on like this all night.” 

All four were at a loss. The serving maid was obviously not going to cooperate, and they had no desire to face the angry mob of townspeople her cries would bring. Luckily, Malbeorn, the veteran and wisest of them all, came up with a simple solution. Drawing the hood of his cloak over his head, he approached the quaking girl in the dragging limp of a Rider. He slowly brought his face closer to hers. The terrified maid began to whimper and writhe in fear. 

His hooded face directly in front of hers, Malbeorn looked at her for several moments, then uttered a single word: 

“BOO.” 

The poor maid fainted dead away. 

* * * 

It was decided that the girl be bound with soft cloth and gagged should she awake and begin screaming again. They placed her gently upon a bed in the room of Aragorn and Boromir, and the two men opted to sleep in a chair and on the floor. 

Boromir stared up at the ceiling from his position on the floor. Slightly rolling over, he watched Aragorn shift in the chair. “Aragorn,” he called quietly. 

“Mmm?” answered the Ranger. 

“We have just kidnapped a bar maid.” 

Aragorn sighed and rubbed his temples. He had many names, some he was fonder of than others. “Aragorn the Kidnapper” was definitely not amongst his favorites. “Boromir?” 

“Yes?” 

“If by some miracle we manage to escape, let us vow to never speak of this again. Agreed?” 

Boromir nodded in the darkness. He had no desire to be known as “Borofara the Kidnapper” either. “Agreed.” 

******* 

_* “Gil-galad was an Elven-king” – The Fellowship of the Ring, Book I; The Return of the King, Poems and Songs, II. Index to First Lines._


	15. The Hobbit Wizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

_*sigh* This chapter is dedicated to the dearly departed Nigel. May he swim long and free in Beta Fish Heaven._

******* 

The midday sun shone brightly as the three hobbits were shuttled across the sky. Clouds were few and far between, causing the pure blue sky to appear as though it were a canvas stretched out flatly above the earth. Unfortunately, as is the case with many a crisp autumn day, the pleasant vision of Middle-earth was annoyingly deceptive: the wind was blustery and the sunlight cold. Sam could not help feeling as though they had been somehow cheated by the weather. 

Much to the Sam’s surprise, the crebain flock opted to rest yet again, despite their roost several hours before. His captors dropped him to the ground, which, he could not help but notice, was still quite out of reach when they released him, and promptly flew into the trees. Frodo and Pippin landed in a heap beside him. He sat rubbing his sore arms and was about to ask Frodo why they had stopped, when Pippin suddenly began scrambling the short distance to the mountain’s rocky outcrop. 

“Water,” Pippin croaked. “There’s water!” Sure enough, the little hobbit was correct. A tiny spring gurgled forth from some deep well within the earth and streamed downward in gentle waterfalls. Frodo was quick to crawl towards the spring. How long had it been since they had drank? Two days? Three days? Sam felt his stomach rumble. They were in desperate need of food as well. 

The crebain made no attempt to bar their efforts, and several of the winged monsters fluttered down to the spring and began drinking themselves. 

Pippin drank and drank until his throat was no longer parched and his stomach felt as though it would explode. The water was cool and soothing; he could not recall a time when it had ever tasted so delicious. Taking one last loud sip, he wiped water from his mouth with the back of his hand. Maybe things weren’t so bad, after all. They were returned to solid ground, had water to drink, and he had his Elvish coin… His coin! 

Pippin turned sharply to Frodo and Sam and patted his breast pocket. The gesture was lost on the crebain, but understood by the two hobbits. Frodo took his fill of water and stumbled (with a great bit of exaggeration, noted Sam) back to the spot the crebain had placed them. His companions followed his lead as he threw himself onto the ground in apparent defeat and curled up in a defensive posture. 

“Why are we stopped?” whispered Pippin. The three lay in a circle with their heads facing inward. Hopefully, the wretched birds would not grow too suspicious. 

“That’s what I’d like to know,” replied Sam. “We already rested a few hours before dawn. Well, we didn’t—but they did.” He cautiously glanced about him. No, the crebain did not suspect anything as of yet. “Strange,” he murmured. “They’re very quiet.” 

Frodo kept his eyes closed in the pretense of one in exhausted sleep. “I think Hollin is just over this mountain.” 

“Hollin?” asked Pippin. 

“Yes. It’s a sort of flat plain—a break in the mountain chain. I know there are several villages, but I can’t really remember what else.” Frodo furrowed his brow and wished he had studied Bilbo’s maps with greater care. He’d meant to, of course, but had never quite gotten around to doing so. “If we flew over during the day, someone would surely spot us. My guess is the birds are waiting until nightfall.” 

Pippin sighed. “Hollin,” he repeated. “I bet they have a lot of food there.” He began poking at a large puffball mushroom with his finger and watched as a dingy cloud of spores was released into the air. There were a large number of the golden-brown fungi in the area, all filled with sacs of dusty, yellow spores. It was too bad they were poisonous. 

“I suppose now is as good a time as ever to escape, though I don’t have a clue how we’re going to do it.” Sam had been wracking his thoughts all day and still had not been able to come up with a way to use Pippin’s coin, short of shoving the thing down one of the crebain’s throats. 

“Well,” began Pippin thoughtfully, “we could…we could… we could make those terrible birds look at my lucky coin and then escape while they weren’t looking.” He grimaced. The plan had sounded much better in his head. 

Sam gave his head an almost imperceptible shake. “And how are we going to get the whole flock of them to look at the coin while we just sneak away?” 

“I don’t know,” mumbled Pippin in defeat. “I suppose we could always sprout wings, or turn ourselves invisible.” 

Invisible! Frodo’s eyes snapped open. _‘The Ring!’_ he thought in excitement. _‘Why, I could just slip it on and disappear! The birds would never find me.’_ It was so perfect, why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? His hand reached of its own accord for the trinket around his neck. All he had to do was slip it on and he would be free… 

“Frodo? Frodo!” Someone was calling his name. Frodo blinked and identified the voice as that of Sam. Sam! He had forgotten all about Sam. And Pippin. How had that happened? He felt appalled with himself. They were his friends, and it was by his own fault they were captured. And he, Frodo Baggins, had actually thought to abandon them—no, he had not even considered them. Who was he to deserve such companions? Merry had already sacrificed himself, whom would be the next to fall? Guilt and despair washed over him, leaving him with an ill and hollow feeling. He was a selfish traitor, and they were all doomed. 

“Frodo!” Pippin gave him a small slap on the arm. “What’s wrong with you? Are you all right?” 

“What?” Frodo mumbled. They were doomed, of course he was not all right. 

Pippin gave an exasperated sigh and, grabbing Frodo by the tunic, sat up. “I think,” he stated, “we have a plan. Watch.” 

* 

The crebain grew menacingly silent as Sam stood up resolutely and placed both hands upon his hips. “Release us!” he commanded. “Release us at once!” 

Frodo groaned. This was the plan? The birds cackled and cawed amongst themselves at the battered hobbit standing before them. What could the beaten creature possibly do? 

“I am warning you,” thundered Sam, drawing upon his memories of an angry Gandalf. “Release us now, or we will disappear to a place you can’t get us!” Maybe it wasn’t Gandalf, but it was a start. 

Black feathers fluttered down from the tree branches as the birds began hopping back and forth gleefully. The hobbit’s antics were hilarious. Disappear, indeed. How preposterous. 

“Very well.” Sam grew severe and grave. “I have no other choice than to use my great powers of wizardry—“ at this, several of the birds actually fell from the branches, overcome by fits of shrieking, “—So long, you dreadful beasts!” 

“Now!” hissed Pippin, giving Frodo a good yank on the arm. Frodo watched as Pippin and Sam began stomping frantically on the vast clusters of puffball mushrooms. A giant cloud of spores was snatched up by the wind, denser than the thickest fog. Suddenly Frodo understood. He joined his companions, and soon all was lost in the dingy haze. 

* 

Crebain are not the smartest of creatures, and thus the fact that the hobbits’ trick was merely a smoke and mirrors act was utterly lost upon them. They knew only that the strange hobbit had commanded he and his friends be released or they would otherwise disappear to a place the crebain could not get them, and then great billows of smoke had poured up from the ground at the hobbit’s command. 

When the wind finally cleared the last remnants of smoke, the crebain were shocked to discover a most shiny token lying where the hobbit wizard had stood. They pecked and snapped at the mysteriously tantalizing thing for several minutes, but could not break it. Was this where the hobbits had vanished to? Admittedly, the shiny object was too small and thin for even a single hobbit to fit in, but wizards were powerful beings. If Saruman could create an army of Orkish crossbreeds, it was entirely possible that the hobbits had shrunken themselves and fled into the safety of The Shiny. 

For lack of better options, the birds surrounded The Shiny and waited. The hobbits could not stay in there forever, and if they tried… Well, Saruman would certainly know how to get them out. 

* 

Three hobbits, coated in a fine layer of yellow dust, fled down the mountainside. Their legs, unused in the past few days, wobbled precariously and threatened to give out at any moment. Frodo’s were the first to buckle, and he found himself lying face-first in a pile of brittle leaves. Sam and Pippin collapsed at his side, and the trio sat gasping and shaking as their adrenaline wore off. 

“We did it,” gasped Sam. “Thank goodness for that lucky coin of yours, Pip. I always said Elves was a good folk. Excepting that Lord Elrond fellow, though.” 

Pippin nodded and flopped onto his backside. “Do you think the birds will be looking for us?” 

Sam shook his head. “No,” he puffed, absentmindedly giving his fat lip an experimental pat to make sure it hadn’t re-split. “I think we fooled them pretty well. The Gaffer always said birds aren’t the brightest animals. Smarter than turtles, but that’s about it.” 

Frodo grimaced. “I still think we should hide, though. Just to be certain. Then perhaps we can travel down to Hollin.” 

Pippin’s countenance brightened considerably. He still associated ‘Hollin’ with ‘food.’ “Right, well what are we waiting for?” He stood up and brushed himself off, setting his face into a resolute frown. “We can’t risk getting caught again.” A momentary flicker of sadness shone in his eyes. “I think Merry would have been proud of our escape,” the young hobbit said softly. He quickly turned his face away from Frodo and Sam, and dashed away the tears that threatened to fall. He would be strong—for Merry’s sake. He had to be. 

Frodo gave Pippin’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and tried to swallow his rising guilt. The younger hobbit’s shoulder quivered the slightest bit beneath his hand. “I know he would have, Pippin.” 

* * * 

Gandalf allowed himself a sigh of relief as he caught sight of the graceful Elvish structures of Rivendell nestled within the trees in the valley below. He pulled his cloak tighter around the still form of Merry. The hobbit no longer felt cold and clammy, but his skin still held a most unhealthy grey pallor. 

Shadowfax snorted and increased the speed of his gallop. Was there ever any doubt he would deliver the hobbit to Rivendell? 

_“Halt.”_ The silvery stallion abruptly sat back on his haunches and skidded to a stop, so startled was he by the sudden command. Gandalf was thrown forward and luckily for him (though most unfortunate for Merry) was pillowed by the hobbit he carried in front of him. The wizard quickly checked to make sure Merry had not received any further injuries, and was again thankful for the unconscious state of the young Brandybuck. 

Several Elves materialized from the forest; they recognized Gandalf immediately. “You have returned, Mithrandir!” one of the fair folk exclaimed. “Yet you have only one hobbit. Were there not four gone missing?” The tall Elf reached out and began stroking Shadowfax gently upon the horse’s velvety nose. The steed snorted and nickered in pleasure. 

“Yes,” replied Gandalf in great haste, “But it is a long tale, and as you can see, I am in need of Lord Elrond’s aid.” He watched as Shadowfax tossed his head and neighed. The Elf’s eyebrows shot up and he turned to glare at Gandalf. 

“Your horse informs me he rescued this hobbit from a tree, though you attempted to convince him otherwise. I did not take you as one who left those in need at the mercy of Fate, Grey Pilgrim.” Several pairs of Elven glares were lanced his way. 

“Horse—rescued—otherwise—“ sputtered Gandalf indignantly. “Why, you deceitful, ungrateful, big-headed lout!” He gave Shadowfax’s mane a solid yank. The horse squealed in fury and twisted his head around in order to grab a hold of the wizard’s beard. Two could play this game. 

The Elves exchanged glances between themselves ranging from amusement to confusion. It is not every day one is audience to a hair-pulling contest betwixt horse and Istari. 

One of the Elves, carefully dodging the nipping Shadowfax and mane-pulling Gandalf, scooped Merry from the wizard’s arm and gently lay the hobbit upon the ground. Gandalf was extremely grateful; now he could yank the mane of that lying braggart of a horse with both hands. 

“Ai, what painful wounds have been afflicted upon this gentle hobbit!” The fair group clustered around the still form of Merry and began examining his hurts. The Elf whom Shadowfax had conversed with delicately traced the line of Merry’s collarbone, feeling the broken bone beneath his sensitive fingers. “He must be taken to Lord Elrond immediately. My heart aches to see this poor child in such a state.” He turned to one of his companions and spoke quickly. Merry was promptly swept up by Elvish arms and whisked away to Elrond’s house of healing. 

* * * 

“There, there young Merry. All’s safe and well now.” 

Merry shifted and groaned. He was dreaming of Bilbo. 

“I told you he would awaken soon.” An Elvish voice. It reminded him of Elrond. How wonderful: there was a soft bed beneath him, Bilbo at his side, and the protection of Lord Elrond and the Elves of Rivendell. 

Merry stiffened. Elves? He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, afraid of what he might find were he to open them. A wrinkled hand patted his own, and the voice of Bilbo spoke again. “Merry, it’s all right, I promise.” 

Merry slowly opened one eye, then the other. _‘Please let this be a dream. Please let this be a dream,’_ he silently repeated to himself. Unfortunately, he was not dreaming. His heart sank. He was now a captive of Rivendell. Bilbo and Gandalf and yes, Elrond too, stood peering down at him from his bedside. “Please Lord Elrond, don’t hurt me!” he blurted out. Suddenly all the emotions he had bottled up during the past few horrific days spilled forth. “I don’t want the Ring! You can have it! I would give it to you but I don’t have it! Oh please oh please don’t kill Frodo! Please!” The young hobbit’s shoulders heaved as he began sobbing uncontrollably. He pulled the bedcovers over his head with his good arm. “Don’t hurt me! Please don’t hurt me!” 

Elrond was not sure of his exact feelings as he watched Bilbo attempt to calm down the injured hobbit. What _did_ Merry think he was going to do to him? He clasped his hands behind his back and waited for the hobbit to collect himself. When at last the sniffling hobbit had settled down, the Lord of Rivendell began to speak. 

“There has been a most unfortunate misunderstanding, Meriadoc Brandybuck. I do not want the Ring, nor have I ever desired to take it from Frodo.” 

Merry sniffled and hastily wiped the tears from his cheeks. “What?” He found himself extremely muddled. “But the Elf told us—“ 

“The message became… distorted,” Elrond interrupted. “My apologies for not delivering it in person. I fear I must take some of the blame for what has befallen.” 

Merry looked to Bilbo and then Gandalf for conformation of Elrond’s words. The two nodded solemnly. He was dumbfounded. He and his kindred had actually run from the safety of Elrond straight into the welcoming arms of the enemy. _‘What were we thinking?’_ Merry thought with a groan. _‘All it took was one twisted message, and we scampered away faster than scared rabbits!’_ The more he thought of it, the more foolhardy he realized their plight had been. 

“I did not realize what had occurred until it was too late. By then, you had already fled my lands.” The Elf sighed heavily and unclasped his hands. “You are extremely lucky Gandalf found you when he did, young hobbit.” 

Merry glanced at Gandalf again and the wizard smiled kindly back at him. “Thank you, Gandalf,” he said gratefully. It was amazing how the wizard managed to show up just when he was needed most. 

The wizard chuckled. “Think nothing of it, my dear hobbit. It is as I told Shadowfax,” a dark look of annoyance flashed across his face at mention of the horse, “you have an important role to play, and I would have hated to see you leave us before it has been fulfilled.” 

_‘Strange,’_ thought Merry. _‘I do not remember his beard looking so frayed.’_ He shook aside those thoughts. “Gandalf,” he asked hopefully, “You have rescued me, were you able to reach Frodo, Pippin and Sam as well?” 

Gandalf only offered him a sad smile, and Bilbo gave his hand another pat. “Nay, Merry, I was not.” Merry’s face fell. The others were still at the hands of the crebain! 

“They will be rescued as soon as they are located,” stated Elrond. “I dispatched the Eagles immediately following Mithrandir’s departure.” The Elf lord tactfully avoided Gandalf’s accusing stare. Of course he had thought the wizard capable of rescuing the hobbits, but a little extra help never hurt anyone. 

“You _what_?” squeaked Merry. 

Elrond raised an eyebrow. “I sent for the Eagles to locate your kin. Do not worry, Meriadoc.” 

“Birds,” Merry gurgled. “You sent MORE BIRDS?” 

Elrond blinked. “Nay, Master Hobbit—they are Eagles, not crebain.” 

“BIGGER BIRDS?” yelped Merry. 

“Merry, calm yourself,” Gandalf ordered. “It is well-known that the Eagles are not aligned with the dark forces of Mordor.” 

“Do Frodo, Sam and Pippin know this?” cried Merry. 

An uncomfortable silence followed. 

Elrond bit his lip in embarrassment. “I’ll go find Shadowfax,” mumbled Gandalf, and bolted, with an impressive amount of speed for an ancient wizard, out of the room. 


	16. Battle Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

_**A/N** :  
This chapter is rated PG-13 due to violent content._

******* 

“Cruel are the tongues of Dwarves, and bitter are the wounds they reopen!” The three Dwarves turned to meet the stormy faces of Fanlin, Rithol and Orimhedil. 

“What mean you by this?” demanded Glóin, his deep voice reverberating among the trees. Gimli’s tirade had been uncalled for, but what was this Fanlin spoke of “wounds reopened?” 

Rithol balled her fists and glared at him. “It is known to all that the Queen of Taur e-Ndaedelos* met a most tragic death, yet your wicked son insulted her nonetheless.” Her steely gaze rested upon Gimli. “Have you no grace? Have you no pity?” 

Gimli’s mouth went dry and he felt physically ill. He had no idea the Elf’s mother was dead, nor the circumstances surrounding the incident. To say he felt terrible was an understatement. 

“We didn’t know. Gimli didn’t know,” Barin protested weakly, lowering his eyes and shuffling his feet in embarrassment. 

“Vile, vile monsters,” snapped Fanlin. “It is said the Dwarves are greedy and selfish, but I add ‘heartless’ to your numerous faults as well.” 

Glóin felt his hackles rising. “Now look here,” he grunted, “had Gimli known of Legolas’ mother, he would not have spoken such!” He would not support the actions of his son, but neither would he allow the Elves to call his kin ‘wicked’ and ‘heartless.’ “He will apologize for his mistake immediately.” 

Gimli nodded dumbly and stared in disbelief at the tip of his berry-stained beard. He had sought only to infuriate the Elf, but ended up doing so much worse. He could not be blamed for his ignorance regarding the departed Queen, but his show of disrespect towards the dead repulsed and shamed him nonetheless. _‘It is small wonder he reacted in such a manner,’_ the Dwarf berated himself. _‘I would have done nothing less were I in his place.’_

“A most monstrous folk I name you. You and your bladed tongues are not welcome among the likes of the fair folk!” Gimli blinked as he realized the Elves were still throwing unkind words at the Dwarves. 

“I said I will apologize!” he proclaimed gruffly. “I am truly sorry.” 

If Gimli thought his admission of guilt would smooth things over, he was greatly mistaken. The three Elves glowered at him in rage. “Apologize?” spat Fanlin. “Were I Legolas I would fain accept an apology from the likes of you!” 

“Yes,” cried Orimhedil. “Your words cannot be forgiven or undone, most uncouth son of Glóin.” 

Rithol’s eyes flashed menacingly. “Return to your dark earthen holes and burrow with the rest of your beastly kin!” 

“Gimli didn’t know!” roared Barin. “And if any here have bladed tongues, it is the Elves and not the Dwarves! You are the heartless and unforgiving ones as I see it. _Gimli—didn’t—know_.” He stomped his foot at each word for emphasis. 

The situation had become more delicate than the frost-coated edges of the autumn leaves. The battle lines were firmly drawn, and a standoff ensued. Barin, Gimli and Glóin stood with feet planted firmly upon the ground and arms crossed over chest. Orimhedil, Rithol and Fanlin stood opposite the Dwarves in the same fashion. Where Glorfindel had managed to drag the raging Legolas off to was anyone’s guess, but it was safe to assume the eastern scouting party was no more. 

* * * 

Glorfindel could not keep Legolas separated from the rest of the company indefinitely, and their mission called that they resume their journey. It was with great trepidation that the Elf lord allowed the young prince to return to camp. The sight that greeted them upon their arrival did not help matters. 

The camp was clearly divided: Dwarves on one side and Elves on the other. Even the horses appeared offended. Glorfindel muttered under his breath in exasperation. He had hoped the feud would go no further than Legolas and Gimli. Obviously, he was mistaken. 

The Elf lord’s concern grew as Gimli slowly turned and approached them. He sensed Legolas stiffen at his side, and wondered if he should restrain the Elf again, for Gimli’s sake. Gimli set his jaw firmly and took a deep breath. “Elf—Legolas,” he boomed, “I believe it is now I who owe the apology. I was not aware of the circumstances surrounding your mother.” 

Legolas flinched and Glorfindel found himself wishing Gimli had not brought the matter to light yet again. A heavy silence fell over the forest. Gimli continued when he realized Legolas had no intention of answering him. “Will you accept my apology?” 

Legolas narrowed his eyes and sent the Dwarf the sharpest gaze he could muster. _“No,”_ he hissed, and mounted his steed without giving the Dwarf a second glance. 

Gimli’s jaw grew tight and his nostrils flared as he watched the Elf ride off. What an ungrateful, despicable, childish— “I think perhaps you should have waited until his anger had sufficiently cooled, son of Glóin.” The softly spoken words of Glorfindel interrupted his mental tirade. 

“Hmph,” Gimli grunted, and went to retrieve his axe. The Elf would get no more apologies from him. 

* * * 

The company had reached the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and the land grew steeper as they pressed onward. Legolas seethed as he rode up the rocky mountain path. He knew, as did Rithol, Fanlin and Orimhedil, that the shortened strides of the Dwarves were incapable of keeping up with those of Elvish mounts. The four Elves could have cared less. Legolas pushed his steed to a faster clip and willed the distance between himself and the loathsome Dwarves even greater. 

_‘To think,’_ he thought furiously, _‘the Dwarf had the audacity to attempt an apology. As though I would merely forget his words without a second thought.’_ Focusing his anger on Gimli gave temporary relief from the gut-wrenching memories of his mother’s passing. The pain lingered, though Time had rendered it somewhat dulled around the edges. He gritted his teeth and began to plot the ways he would go about destroying the Dwarf. 

_‘First I shall tie him to a tree, riddle him with arrows, then drag him behind Mithlaf.* Nay—I shall trample over him several times and then drag him behind Mithlaf. At a pace no less than a gallop. Following that, he will be placed under a loose boulder. . .’_

Orimhedil paused to glance over his shoulder. Glorfindel, who had been conversing with Glóin, and the three Dwarves were so far behind that they could no longer be seen. The group rode around a bend in the path, and was sundered completely from the lagging members of their party. 

* * * 

Glorfindel pursed his lips as the Elven members of the group drew further and further away. He had begun to think the mission a most terrible idea. Perhaps the Dwarves should have traveled separately. _‘And then,’_ he thought with a sigh, _‘there is the matter of the return trip. Gimli shall be the only Dwarf among the company. I fear I shall be forced to carry him in my saddle bag for his own safety.’_

There was also the issue of informing Thranduil what had occurred during their journey. The Elf lord was beginning to sorely regret his ordering of Legolas to speak with his father about the matter. He had no doubt Legolas would repeat Gimli’s words to Thranduil, and he did not think he would be able to restrain an enraged King of Mirkwood as he had done Legolas. The golden-haired Elf washed a hand over his face in pure frustration. _‘Why is it, when I believe things cannot possibly become any worse, they do?’_

* * * 

The low, guttural snarl of an Orkish command cracked through the chilly air like a whip. The four Elves immediately snapped to attention and drew their weapons. Their mounts pawed at the earth in unease and the land became deathly still and silent. Then the storm broke. 

Dark figures poured down from behind every tree and rock faster than a driving rain. In reality, their foes numbered perhaps twenty or thirty, but to the Elves they seemed as hundreds. Legolas nocked four arrows in succession, his bowstring singing, yet still the fell beasts came at him. To him they were more numerous than the leaves of the forest, and when one was slain there seemed to be twenty in his place. He reached for the knife at his waist and sprang from the back of his steed. Since when had orcs crossed the High Pass to the Imladris side of the Hithaeglir*? 

_‘Now is no time to ponder such questions,’_ he thought grimly. The Elf neatly dispatched the screaming foe to his left with a swift jab followed by an upward thrust. He dislodged the blade as another came at him and managed to catch the creature by the wrist as it brought down its rapier. The orc yowled in pain and fury when Legolas gave the wrist a sharp twist and spun outward, throwing the orc off-balance. The dark beast met the earth with an ungraceful thud, and rolled over just in time to see the sharp glint of an Elvish blade swipe across his throat. 

“Legolas!” The Elf whirled at the sound of his name, barely ducking the blow of an Orkish sword. His eyes sought out and found those of Orimhedil. The Imladris Elf frantically gestured down the rocky trail amidst parrying an Orkish blade. Legolas felt his stomach sink. _‘They attack from the middle,’_ he realized. _‘And we are driven further from Glorfindel and the rest of our party!’_

“Do not let them divide us,” he cried. “We must not be pushed back!” The four Elves began attacking their foes with greater fury, and the orcs responded in similar fashion—sensing they had their prey in a potentially vulnerable position. 

Legolas gritted his teeth as an errant blade nicked his forearm. He gripped the haft of his silver knife even tighter and plunged the weapon into the nearest orc. They may be outnumbered, but they were by no means finished. He winced when he saw an Orkish sword score the back of Fanlin, and then again when his own shoulder received a blow. 

“Elbereth Gilthoniel!” No, they were not finished yet. 

* * * 

Glorfindel immediately bolted upright when the sound of battle reached his ears. The unmistakable snarl of orcs coupled with the metallic shiver of blades was a song he knew all too well. And to make matters worse, the din originated directly in front of them. 

“Elbereth Gilthoniel!” The Elven battle cry rang out clear and proud. 

_‘O Valar,’_ the Elf lord thought in alarm. ‘ _What have we thrown ourselves into now?’_ He had not long to await an answer, for soon the path was overrun with charging, snarling orcs. 

The eastern scouting party’s previous differences and insults were immediately forgotten. The three Dwarves reached for their axes, and Glorfindel drew forth his sword with a metallic ring. They met the orcs head-on, weapons clashing in deadly fervor. 

“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!*” Glóin swung his blade in a wide arc and roared as one of the foul creatures fell before him. Gimli and Barin were just as proficient, skillfully hacking an orc as it tried to flatten Glorfindel with its shield. The Elf lord, being the most skilled and seasoned of all the eastern scouting party, was a force in his own right. He thrust, parried and feinted with the grace of a dancer and the deadly accuracy of an archer. The orcs, who had foolishly concentrated themselves in the space between the divided company, soon found they were caught between the hammer of four Elves and the anvil of three Dwarves and Glorfindel. 

Gimli felt the rocky stone trail beneath him and dug his feet into the earth for better grip. He brought his axe down upon the shield of an orc and cried out in triumph as the shield splintered. The Dwarf swiftly rolled his shoulders and swung his blade in the opposite direction. The orc beneath him caught its blow under the chin and moved no more. “Khazâd aimênu!” 

“Glorfindel!” The Dwarf glanced towards the sound of the voice, and caught sight of the tall figure of Legolas. The Mirkwood Elf paused to help Rithol dispatch of a particularly troublesome orc before calling out again. Gimli could not help but feel slightly impressed as he noted the agility and speed at which the Elf did so. _‘He is an Elf,’_ he told himself, _‘they all fight the same.’_

“Glorfindel!” Glorfindel heard his name called a second time before finally locating its owner. 

“Legolas!” he called over the fray, “How fare you and the others?” He snapped out his arms and sent an orc reeling backwards. The dark beasts’ numbers were severely depleted, and they now held no advantage over their foes. 

“Fanlin has taken hurt to the back,” Legolas shouted in reply after a few moments, taking time to dodge the swipe of a heavy metal shield, “but I do not think the wound grievous. Aside from minor scrapes and bruises, we are as well as is to be expected.” 

Glorfindel gave the orc a solid kick as the beast attempted to pick itself up. “Let us end this before one of us does come to serious harm,” he called, bringing his bright sword down in a resolute stroke. 

* * * 

Within a matter of minutes, the final minion of Sauron had been slain, and the eastern scouting party found themselves standing amidst a blackened sea of twenty-odd orc bodies. Glorfindel wiped his sword blade on an untarnished spot of grass and grimly shook his head. “They lack any sort of provisions on their bodies. I suspect we rode too close to their camp and shall find its remains nearby.” 

Glóin wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned against the hilt of his axe handle. “What was their business here, I wonder?” The old Dwarf panted in exertion. “I knew orcs inhabited the wilds of Mirkwood, but I did not know they had pushed so far west—and so close to Rivendell at that.” 

Legolas tore an arrow from the body of a fallen beast, baring his teeth in disgust when he discovered the shaft ruined. He discarded the arrow by lightly tossing it over his shoulder. “When we journeyed from my father’s realm, there were signs of the Enemy along the eastern side of the Hithaeglir. We found the High Pass to be the most perilous stage of our trek, but even then it was only Wargs we faced.” He delicately prodded an orc with the toe of his boot to make certain the thing was slain. 

“Wargs are a common spy of Sauron,” said Glorfindel, his face clouding over. “Orcs are not. And they are too many to suggest a scouting party.” He glanced over to see how Fanlin, who was being attended to by Rithol, fared. “They are far too close to Imladris for my liking.” 

“I am more concerned about the safety of the High Pass,” said Gimli. He spat indignantly at the body lying near his feet when he noticed his axe blade had been notched. “How are we to cross the mountains if we are waylaid by Orkish armies? For all we know they have seized the Pass by now.” 

“Perhaps we ought to turn back,” suggested Orimhedil. “We were to only scout the Enemy, not engage him in battle. We have not the numbers to do so.” He gestured towards Fanlin. “Already we have taken hurt, and Imladris must be informed of the growing presence of fell beasts.” 

“But how are we to return home?” argued Barin. He missed the Lonely Mountain and had no desire to backtrack to Rivendell. 

Orimhedil shrugged somewhat apologetically at the Dwarf’s inquiry. “Perhaps you do not.” 

“Mirkwood shall not be sundered from Imladris!” cried Legolas in alarm. “We must continue onward, and when we reach the forest perhaps my father’s forces will help to drive back the Enemy.” Elbereth, he had just agreed with a Dwarf. It was a most unnatural sensation. Apparently Orimhedil found the situation as odd as he did: the Imladris Elf started and shook his head. 

“Those of us still able shall not turn back to Imladris,” Glorfindel stated firmly. “Fanlin and Rithol may depart.” He turned to the injured Elven warrior. “I am sorry my friend, but you would only serve to jeopardize our mission in your present condition. I send Rithol as your escort—it would be unwise for you to travel alone.” 

The warrior heaved a sigh of resignation. “Were it that I had not been injured,” the crestfallen Elf replied. “Alas, my heart wishes to continue onward.” He stood and straightened his tunic. “But that cannot be helped. We shall warn Lord Elrond of all we have seen.” He bowed stiffly, taking care not to upset the wound’s dressing. “Come, Rithol.” He gave Legolas an amiable pat on the shoulder as he walked to his horse. _“Keep your weapons close, young prince,”_ he whispered in Legolas’ ear as he passed by. _“For I fear you shall need them.”_

The two Elves gracefully mounted their steeds and turned to wish the remaining company a safe journey. “Farewell!” they called, their clear voices ringing pleasantly in the crisp air. Then, in a whirlwind of flying pebbles and dust, they turned their steeds and flew back down the rocky trail. Soon all that could be heard was the softly fading cadence of flinty hooves and the wary chirrups of battle-frightened birds. 

* * * 

“We too must go forth,” said Glorfindel after a time. He eyes swept over the slain orc bodies littering the mountain path. Orimhedil was right—they had not the numbers to constantly battle their foe. “Let us try to call as little attention to ourselves as possible.” His eyes slid to the face of Legolas. _‘That means no more foolhardy stunts, young prince.’_ Though he did not voice the words, he was certain the Mirkwood Elf understood his message. 

He was about to turn and grasp the mane of his stallion when a slight movement behind Legolas caught his eye. The Elf lord’s eyes widened in horror as he realized not all of the orcs had been slain. The dying beast was reaching for the dagger at its side, intending to send at least one Elf to the Halls of Mandos while it still had the chance. “Legolas!” he cried out in warning and leapt forward, knowing that even as he did it was too late. 

Legolas spun around in time to see a crude dagger speeding straight at him. His body only had time to tense before… 

_CHINK!_ The most peculiar clash of metal upon metal sang in the air, and the dagger fell harmlessly to the ground. Legolas stood motionless, mouth agape, as Glóin stumped over to retrieve his helm. 

“Hahah!” cried the Dwarf as he examined the metal working of the helm. “Not a scratch or dent upon it.” He chuckled and gave the very pale Elf a hearty thump upon the back. “Now here is a good and proper piece of Dwarvish metal, Master Elf!” He winked at Legolas and trundled back to his comrades, still chuckling. 

Legolas swallowed wanly and marveled that his knees had not yet given away. 

Gimli hoisted his thick axe upon his shoulder and began to tread around the various orc bodies. He looked at the Elf, who still appeared rather stunned, and grinned to himself. He couldn’t stand the haughty prince any more than he had before, but at least the Elf would now think twice when it came to Dwarves. 

Thunder rumbled overhead as the reunited company slowly picked its way over the mountainous terrain. Soon a cold rain would fall, washing away any trace of battle and cleansing the tainted land. Necessity called that an uneasy truce be reached, but how long would it last? 

******** 

_*Hithaeglir- The Misty Mountains_

_*Taur e-Ndaedelos: ‘the forest of the great fear.’ Translated into Westron as ‘Mirkwood.’ --The Return of the King; Appendix F, II On Translation._

_* “Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!” --“Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!”_

_* Mithlaf—Legolas’ steed_


	17. It All Goes Up in Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

The female of any species is a most wondrous creation. All outward appearances hint at a delicate and fragile being, yet beneath her soft exterior lies a devious and calculating beast, craftier than the sliest fox. She is a master of perception, and when pushed to the edge the true steel of her character is revealed. Thus, it was not in the nature of the serving girl Mysian, who deemed herself so cruelly bound and gagged by the “Black Riders,” to simply wait in helpless misery until a brawny hero came to her rescue.

Immediately following her return to consciousness, the girl had lain on the bed as quietly as she could and slowly worked at the knotted bonds around her wrists for the remainder of the night. They had not been tightly bound, for the Rangers and Boromir were perhaps too kindly for their own good. By the time the scent of morning began to fill the crisp air and starlight faded into the first streaks of dawn, she had loosened them completely. 

* * * 

Aragorn awoke with a start. He rapidly blinked the sleep away from his heavy eyelids and stood up with a groan. Spending the night in a hard wooden chair was not the most comfortable of makeshift beds, but the Ranger had encountered far worse. His wrist cracked as he placed his hand in the crook of his back and arched his spine. He heaved a sigh and gave his shoulders a languid roll, feeling them stretch and pop. 

_‘I wonder when I became so rickety,’_ he thought in wry amusement. _‘One of these days I shall begin to inadvertently lose body parts.’_ He pictured Arwen’s reaction should he roll out of bed and stretch, only to have an arm or leg fall off. _‘I prefer it be an arm,’_ he decided. _‘I do not think a one-legged version of myself would pose very threatening.’_

He was in the process of contemplating how the single-legged Aragorn would sword fight, ride a horse, dance with Arwen, and trek up a mountain when Boromir lazily sat up from the floor and yawned. “Good morn, Arag—, er, Strider,” Boromir said softly as he attempted to stifle a second yawn. The son of Denethor massaged the back of his painfully stiff neck. “I admit the floor did nothing for me. How fare you?” 

“A lot of hopping,” muttered Aragorn. 

Boromir cocked his head towards the man in confusion. “Pardon?” 

Aragorn blinked and rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin. He needed a shave, and did he just say “a lot of hopping” out loud? “Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere. What were you asking?” He never had been a morning person. 

Boromir shook his head and wondered what the dark-haired man could possibly think about so early in the morning that involved hopping. “Ah, never mind. It was nothing of great importance.” He shifted his body to look at the still form of the serving maid. She appeared to be sleeping. “What shall we do with her?” 

Aragorn’s mouth drew into a thin line as he regarded the sleeping girl. Her shoulders moved up and down in response to her slumbered breathing and the braid of her honeyed hair had loosened, allowing tangled strands to hide her face. “Leave her here, I suspect. Hopefully she will not wake until after our departure.” 

Boromir reached for his boots and began lacing them up. “Do you think anyone noticed her missing?” 

Aragorn shrugged, his sharp gaze still resting upon the maid. “I do not know. Perhaps, perhaps not.” Boromir found little comfort in his words. 

The pretty maid clamped her eyelids shut and willed them not to flutter. The Black Riders must not discover she was awake. _‘I wonder if anyone did notice my absence,’_ she pondered, forcing herself to breath as evenly as she could. The weather had driven many to seek shelter the previous evening, sending the tavern into a chaotic whirl of weary travelers, bustling servers, and countless ale mugs and stew platters. Her absence had most likely been lost amidst the hectic masses. 

She slowly cracked open one eye as wide as she dared and watched the two men through her thick lashes. Curse the day she had ever laid eyes upon that Borofara! Her anger began to boil as she remembered how he had toyed with her emotions. Of course, Boromir had done no such thing, but as Mysian perceived it, he had caused her great insult. There was, she reasoned, only one explanation for her ridiculous infatuation with the man: he had cast a spell upon her, which rendered her completely enchanted and powerless. _‘The way he looked straight into the depths of my eyes, my very soul,’_ she silently ranted, gnashing her teeth in fury. _‘He knew I would be helpless against his wicked Black Powers.’_

Boromir finished lacing his boots and stood up. He reached for his cloak and began to fasten it around his neck, but Aragorn stopped him. “Let us first see if the others have risen.” Aragorn glanced at the dark cloak and winced. “In our current situation, it would be best to avoid wearing those.” 

Boromir hastily threw the cloak aside. “Of course, how foolish of me.” The two men buckled their scabbards and headed towards the door. The kidnapped girl listened to their heavy boots clomp across the wooden floorboards, followed by the rattle of a door handle as it was turned. Aragorn and Boromir exited the room, and the door closed behind them with a sharp click. 

Mysian the serving maid suddenly found herself alone. She held her breath and waited several tense seconds before springing to action. 

Rolling over onto her stomach, the girl shimmied out of the cloth that bound her wrists. She then sat upright, swiftly untied her ankles, and tore off the gag around her mouth. Before hopping to the floor, she froze, her body rigid, and strained her ears for any hint of the Black Riders’ return. Her ears were greeted by only the muted murmur of conversation as it drifted up from the room below her. Inhaling a shaky breath, the very rumpled Mysian pushed stray pieces of hair away from her face and cautiously stood up. She cringed as the floorboards creaked ever so slightly beneath her. 

_‘I must escape,’_ she told herself resolutely. _‘I must warn the town.’_ What if the Black Riders were to capture her family? What would they do to them? She suppressed a shudder at the thought. No, she would not let Borofara and the rest of his minions destroy her family or her village. He and his dark friends had tried to subdue her, but they would not succeed! 

With steps lighter than a feather, the girl stole across the room. She was almost to the door. _‘It is but a few steps more,’_ she encouraged herself. Her trembling hand reached for the knob. What if Borofara knew she was trying to escape? What if he and his companions were on the other side of the door, waiting for her to open it? The pretty maid closed her green eyes, sent a quick prayer to the Valar, and thrust open the door. 

The hallway was empty. Mysian almost began to cry in relief, and bit her bottom lip as it quivered uncontrollably. _‘You are not in the clear yet,’_ she reminded herself. She cautiously stuck her head out of the doorframe. _‘They must be in the room of their fellow Riders.’_ She envisioned Borofara and his men sitting around a bubbling cauldron, chanting in strange tongues and plotting the demise of she and the entire town. Her fear melted away and was replaced by indignant anger. How dare they! 

Without further thought, the girl dashed into the hallway and let loose several blood-curdling screams loud enough to make even the deaf cover their ears. “TO ARMS! TO ARMS!” she cried. “THEY ARE HERE! THE BLACK RIDERS ARE HERE!” 

* * * 

The eastern scouting party trekked forward at a brisk clip following their late noontide battle with the orcs. Seeking to put as much distance between themselves and their slain foes—for they reasoned where there was one large camp, there was bound to be another, the company continued on through the night and into the next morning. The day dawned pale and washed-out, sobering the group as they plodded forth. Luckily, there was still an abundance of trees in the area, which served to break the howling wind as it tumbled down from the mountain heights. 

Glorfindel twisted around on the back of his mount in order to check on the well being of the three Dwarves. Gimli, Glóin and Barin huffed and panted as they toiled up the mountain trail. The Elf lord’s eyes did not miss the slight hitch in the step of Glóin, or the fact that he tended to veer slightly to the right when walking. _‘An old battle injury, I presume,’_ Glorfindel thought. _‘I worry for Master Glóin’s welfare.’_ His eyes scanned over the remaining members of the party. Even Orimhedil and Legolas were beginning to show signs of weariness. 

They pressed ahead into the late afternoon before the captain of Rivendell opted to halt for the evening. Though several hours of daylight still persisted, all were taxed too far to safely journey onward. The forest had begun to thin as well, and Glorfindel decided to make use of its cover while the trees were still available. The company built a makeshift camp within a rocky, weathered glen and then each attended to his needs. 

Legolas sighed in relief when he found the object of his desire—a small, cold stream gushing through a shallow and rocky bed. He had not attended to his cuts earlier, for he deemed them minor and unnecessary of immediate attention. Though this was true, they nonetheless burned and stung incessantly. Legolas found them incredibly irritating, and the soothing waters of the stream would feel marvelous on his sore and abused skin. 

He unfastened his wrist guard and rolled up his sleeve, examining the cut along his forearm. It was swollen and puckered an angry red, but would not hinder him to any great degree. He closed his eyes and stiffened as the freezing water splashed over the wound. Gradually relaxing as the water numbed his arm, Legolas slowly rotated it back and forth. The rushing water cleansed the cut and the Elf was finally relieved a majority of the wound’s painful burning. 

_‘And now to attend the shoulder.’_ Legolas undid the nape of his cloak and the topmost fastens of his tunic. He rolled his shoulder forward in attempt to better view the wound and gently prodded it with his fingers. It had ceased bleeding, but was still immensely tender. Legolas grimaced as he caught sight of the purplish-blue bruise beginning to form on the outer welted edges of the cut. It would take at least a week to heal. 

He cupped his hand, scooping up a small amount of water, and poured it onto his shoulder. The cold water dribbled down his back and effectively soaked his tunic sleeve. Perhaps his method did not yield the most advantageous result, but it was by far the most convenient. 

He had almost completely cleansed the wound when approaching footsteps reached his keen ears. Short, heavy footfalls. _‘Please let it not be a Dwarf. Please let it not be a Dwarf,’_ Legolas pleaded silently to any whom might be listening. His mind was still jumbled with conflicting emotions concerning the most recent turn of events, and he had yet to sort them out. Coming face to face with one of the three Dwarves was the last thing he wished for at the moment. The footsteps grew louder. There was no denying who they belonged to. 

_‘Turn away,’_ willed Legolas with all his might. _‘Return to camp. Turn, turn, turn!’_

Gimli bustled through the trees, water skin in hand. Glorfindel had informed him a small stream ran up ahead. The Dwarf sang softly to himself in his deep bass as he marched along. 

_“Chisel the stone and whet the axe_

_for the Dwarves have gone a-marching!”_

Legolas lifted his face to the heavens and rolled his eyes. Some folk should NOT sing. 

_“The dragon trembles within his lair_

_and the Elven-king pulls out his hair!”_

Legolas snapped his head around and narrowed his bright eyes in the direction of Gimli’s voice. He had a sneaking suspicion of who the Elven-king in question might be. 

_“For the Dwarves have come a-marching home!”_ Gimli ended the ditty with a flourish of booming drum imitations, and would have struck up the Dwarvish jig that went along with it had he not reached the streambed first. 

Still humming, he knelt down in front of the stream and began filling his flask. A sudden tremor ran up and down his spine. He was being watched. The Dwarf suspiciously lifted his eyes. He cried out in shock and started backwards when he noticed the half-dressed Elf sitting cross-legged on the stream’s bank, glaring at him. 

“Elf.” Gimli gave Legolas a somewhat courteous nod, but continued to watch him as though he expected the archer to attack at any second. 

“Dwarf.” Legolas answered in a similarly cold fashion. The two continued to eye each other. 

When Gimli’s flask emitted several burps of air, signaling it had been filled, the Dwarf withdrew it from the icy water and replaced its cap. He could still feel the sharp gaze of the Elf boring into him. _‘What happens now?’_ he wondered. He looked back to the Elf, noticing the Elder’s slender hand was covering a decent sized gash on his shoulder and that a slight grimace sat upon the Elf’s lips. 

Gimli felt a twinge of concern, in spite of himself. The scouting party would not have split had he not said those cruel words, and the Elf would not have been injured. None of the Elves would have been. Perhaps if he were to… No, he would not try to apologize. His words would be wasted on the haughty son of Thranduil. _‘If the Elf cannot defend himself, it is no fault of mine,’_ Gimli decided. He brushed aside the errant drops of water clinging to the flask and turned back to the forest. 

“What have we here?” Gimli stooped down to investigate the mysterious plant that had caught his eye. “Why, this looks like… Nay, it cannot be!” The excitement in his voice was evident. 

Legolas unrolled his sleeve and slipped his wrist guard back on with a sigh. Gimli had stumbled across some *Ionillis—a plant so similar in appearance to pipe-weed that only one with an expert eye could tell the difference. Though the two looked the same, Ionillis was extremely flammable. During Legolas’ first journey with Aragorn, the Heir of Isildur had made the same mistake. Had Legolas not interfered, Middle-earth would have been left with one very headless future king of Gondor. Legolas was familiar with the plant because Mirkwood Elves often used it in performances that required smoke or small explosions. 

“What luck is this!” cried Gimli in delight. Legolas curled his lip in disdain. Imbecile Dwarf. The prince would have to stop the fool before he attempted to smoke the stuff and ended up instead with a face full of sparking ashes. 

Legolas paused. That was, _if_ he told Gimli what the plant really was. _‘No,’_ he warned himself. _‘Tell the Dwarf it is not pipe-weed! His father saved your life.’_ True, Glóin had saved Legolas’s life. Gimli, on the other hand, had not. Gimli had thrown a rock at him. Gimli had insulted his mother. And Gimli had just sung a rather nasty tune concerning the events of the Battle of Five Armies—efficiently cutting down Thranduil in the process. _‘Tell him,’_ his mind hissed. 

“I believe that is what you call pipe-weed in the Common Tongue.” Apparently Legolas’ mouth had different ideas. There was no going back now. _‘He is deserving of a proper scare,’_ the Elf reasoned, knowing all the while he had no business leading the Dwarf on. _‘And I shall not be inflicting the damage. He will inflict the damage upon himself.’_

Gimli, forgetting his hatred of the Elf in his excitement, began to hastily gather some of the plants’ dried leaves. _‘I shall at least be certain he does not gather too much,’_ Legolas decided. Ionillis was only dangerous if used in large amounts. _‘As much as I detest the thing, I will not be held accountable for directing him straight to the grave.’_

“Dwa—Gimli,” he began. Gimli’s name was still unpleasant to his palate. “Take only a small amount of the plant. It is vital to the forest.” He hoped Gimli would not ask him what the plant’s importance was; it was a weed and choked out the more delicate fauna of the area. 

Had Gimli been on his guard, he would have grown suspicious when the archer informed him what the plant was. And if that had been overlooked, Legolas’s use of Gimli’s name should have set off a barrage of warnings within the Dwarf’s mind. Yet it was not to be, for the son of Glóin was far too enraptured by his fortunate discovery of “pipe-weed.” 

“Yes, yes,” the Dwarf responded impatiently. Elves and their plants, honestly! He carefully plucked a final leaf. _‘Mayhap the son of Thranduil is not quite as terrible as I made him out to be,’_ he thought. _‘I was almost sorry Father saved his wretched little life, but I begin to feel his efforts were not in vain.’_ He stood up and shot a grateful, albeit somewhat reluctant, look in the direction of Legolas, whose face remained completely unreadable. “Ahem,” he grunted, embarrassed. “Thank you.” With that, he turned abruptly on his heel and headed back to camp. 

Legolas sat wordlessly upon the pebbly bank, his lithe form straight as an ash tree. Was that guilt he felt gnawing at his insides? He scowled. _‘Cease this at once,’_ he ordered. _‘Should an orc express gratitude, would you show him mercy as well?’_ Admittedly, the chances of an orc expressing gratitude of any kind, particularly towards an Elf, were slim to none. Legolas chose to ignore this fact. Instead, the archer pictured the look on the Dwarf’s face when he lit up his pipe, receiving a giant billow of smoke when expecting the breathy wisps of tobacco. The Elf’s thoughts then turned to his mother. Any lingering guilt quickly vanished. 

Legolas refastened his tunic and cloak, then fluidly rose to his feet. For once, he would be looking forward to the Dwarves’ evening smoke. It was as Glorfindel said: _“Fight fire with fire.”_

* * * 

Gimli stumped through the autumn-painted eaves of the forest as the light gradually waned. Despite the fact that he was surrounded by trees and traveling in the company of Elves, the Dwarf was in wonderfully high spirits. Two evenings ago, he had been most disturbed to discover his leather pouch of pipe-weed had begun to mould. The constant rainfall had seeped in, destroying nearly all the pouch’s contents. The stuff of Barin and Glóin had also fallen victim to the rain, leaving precious little for them to smoke. But, as luck would have it, Gimli had managed to find more. 

The Dwarf caught sight of several pipe-weed plants growing in various spots within the forest carpet. He might as well replenish his entire stock while he could. 

Gimli furtively scoured the trees, searching for any sign of the Elf. He would not let the Eldar catch him picking more leaves when he had been specifically bidden not to. The forest remained still, save the rustling of branches and leaves. _‘He must have remained sitting by the stream.’_

Gimli dumped out the entire contents of his leather pouch and swiftly plucked a few leaves. And then a few more. He paused to glance around him; there was still no sign of the Elf. _‘This lot of trees looks to be doing well enough,’_ he thought. _‘The loss of a few plants here and there will not destroy it.’_

The dried out leaves were brittle and crumbled in the Dwarf’s strong fist with little effort. Gimli ground them all and deposited the fine shreds into his pouch. Humming gruffly to himself, the Dwarf began to jauntily march back to camp, oblivious that he had just obtained enough Ionillis to lay an entire legion flat. 

* * * 

Dwarves do not usually partake in sharing, but Gimli was in such a merry mood that he felt downright generous. The moment he returned to camp, he sought out Glóin and Barin and promptly split his tobacco between the three of them. There was an abundance of the stuff, and he reasoned it was only fair he do so. After all, if Glóin had not saved Legolas’ life, the Elf never would have spoken to Gimli, and Gimli would not have discovered the pipe-weed. 

The entire company reconvened at dusk, settling for a cold meal. Though warm food would have been preferred by all—especially as the night promised to be frightfully cold, they thought it unwise to risk lighting a fire. The three Elves snacked upon dried fruit (for they did not require much), and the three Dwarves gnawed dried meat, cram and sugared nuts. It was a scanty meal, but nourishing nonetheless. 

Glorfindel watched in amusement as Legolas chose to seat himself next to Glóin. The young Elf reacted in surprise as Glóin offered him a sugared nut and then shyly accepted the candy. _‘I see you begin to hold a Dwarf to some esteem, young prince,’_ Glorfindel thought with a chuckle. _‘It is a start.’_

What the Elf lord didn’t know was, while Legolas was grateful to Glóin for saving his life, he actually wanted to get a better view of Gimli. 

Legolas could barely conceal his mirth as Gimli reached for his pipe. In a very few seconds, the Dwarf’s face would be covered in a cloud of Ionillis ash. Glóin and Barin had also reached for theirs, but it was Gimli the Elf concentrated on. 

Glorfindel noticed the mischievous glint in Legolas’s bright eyes. He knew that gleam—it was the same one the young Elf had prior to “shooting” Gimli. Glorfindel was immediately alarmed. 

Gimli lit his pipe, as did Glóin and Barin. Legolas leaned forward, eyes twinkling in merriment. Glorfindel narrowed his eyes. “Leg—“ he began. 

He never had the chance to finish. 

_BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!_

Not one, not two, but three full-blown explosions complete with bright yellowish-orange fireballs shot up into the night sky and resounded throughout the mountains. 

It had all gone horribly wrong. 

Bits of flaming Dwarven beards and Elvish braids rained down from the sky as members of the eastern scouting party ran screaming towards the stream. 

It had all gone so terribly wrong. 

******* 

*Ionillis- “ _Nicotiana explosio_. Relative of the nightshade family. Long, flat leaves contain small hairs and appear dark green in color. Height ranges from approximately six inches to one foot. Leaves dry out in autumn months, becoming highly reactive when exposed to flame. Prefers cooler climates than the more common _N. tabacum_. Found in areas containing abundant shade and leaf detritus. Also see: _‘Smoke Leaf.’_ ” 

\-- Bryn’s Guide of Imaginary Middle-earth Species, Chapter 5 “Fun With Fire”, page 83. 

_:)_


	18. Strength of a Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

The first light of dawn lanced through windows at the east end of the hall as Boromir and Aragorn walked next door to the room of Halbarad and Rowgond. A rooster crowed shrilly from the stables below, and the smells of breakfast began to waft down the hall. The many tavern occupants still slumbered, unwilling to leave the blissful warmth of their beds.

The two men quietly entered the cozy room of Halbarad and Rowgond. The grizzled Malbeorn was leaning lazily against the far wall near the window, one foot braced against it. The Ranger squinted as a shaft of sunlight fell across his face, lighting his pale sea-colored eyes, and pulled back the dingy burlap curtain a little farther. “Weather’s cleared,” he announced in the typical short mannerism of his speech. 

Boromir washed a hand over his tired eyes and ran it through his hair. Malbeorn looked as though he had been awake for hours. _‘Does he not sleep?’_ wondered the son of Denethor incredulously. 

Halbarad was seated on the edge of his bed, attempting to fasten his tunic. Boromir and Aragorn exchanged amused glances as Halbarad discovered he had mismatched the hooks and began to swear furiously. The Ranger angrily fumbled with the fastenings, but only succeeded in rumpling his tunic. “Argh!” he spat in disgust, throwing up his hands. “I shall go about wearing this stupid tunic as it is. I care not.” With that, the Ranger folded his arms over his chest and glowered down at the troublesome hooks. His resemblance to a pouting child was remarkable. 

Aragorn chuckled as he knelt down to straighten his sour friend’s tunic. “I take it you did not sleep well this past night?” 

Halbarad wearily shut his red-rimmed eyes and sighed. “Sleep is impossible when one must reside in the same quarters as THAT.” He jerked his thumb towards a lump in the opposite bed, which Boromir supposed was Rowgond. “A cavern of slumbering Dwarves would seem as a melodious lullaby compared to him.” 

Aragorn re-fastened Halbarad’s final hook and gave him a clap on the shoulder. “I think you exaggerate, my friend.” 

Halbarad snorted. “Then by all means, you attempt to sleep near him for one night.” He reached to the head of his bed and grabbed a pillow, then threw it at the lump that was Rowgond. 

The lump jerked as the pillow smacked it with a dull thud. “What, eh?” The tousled blonde head of Rowgond suddenly appeared from under the covers. The young Ranger yawned and stretched, blinking in surprise when he noticed the small crowd in the room. “Good morning all,” he said in a sleep-laden, albeit cheerful, voice. He propped himself onto one elbow and turned his head to the dawning light at the window. “I slept as though I were a rock!” 

Halbarad growled and vehemently muttered something about stoning under his breath. 

Aragorn chuckled and opened his mouth to reply when piercing screams shattered the calmness of morning. “TO ARMS! TO ARMS! THEY ARE HERE! THE BLACK RIDERS ARE HERE!” 

* * * 

The sleepy village of Fenadoch suddenly sprang to live, save five men who stood frozen in one of the boarding rooms at the Singing Mûmak. The call to arms was heeded by all, and soon the entire town was a seething mass of swords, spears, axes, pikes, and all manner of makeshift weaponry. 

* * * 

The sounds of a bellowing crowd approaching snapped the company from their initial shock. Boromir swiftly made for the door, which was the most obvious (and preferable) way to exit the room. He stuck his head out of the doorway then quickly drew it back in, shutting the door behind him. “They are coming down the corridor, from both the right and left stairways,” he stated grimly. “They bear torches and all manner of weaponry.” 

Malbeorn again lifted the curtain from the window and surveyed the area surrounding the tavern with a sharp eye. A large and murderous group of townsfolk was beginning to amass at the door, like a nest of angry hornets. “How many in the hall?” he growled, leaning back into the shadow of the window frame as a peasant below caught sight of him and began to point and shout. 

“I know naught,” replied Boromir. ‘Ten, perhaps. I can only guess.” Rowgond hopped on one foot as he simultaneously attempted to shove a boot on and loop an arm through his tunic. 

Aragorn rapidly walked to the window and leaned next to Malbeorn. “We cannot exit through here. It is a straight drop to the ground.” 

“Only two stories,” murmured Malbeorn. 

Halbarad braced himself against the door, shoulder-to-shoulder with Boromir, in preparation for the oncoming hoard of townsfolk. “I shall not go jumping out of windows,” the Ranger stated emphatically. “We will land directly at the feet of the mob below, and quite possibly break our legs in the process.” 

Malbeorn said nothing, but continued to warily eye the growing crowd. 

The dull thunder of pounding feet along wooden floorboards grew louder as the host of peasants drew near the company’s chambers. Boromir grabbed the doorknob as Rowgond joined he and Halbarad in their effort to stay the door. 

Malbeorn and Aragorn drew away from the window and stood tensely in the center of the room. “Let them make the first move,” Aragorn commanded softly, his voice low and gravelly. “Should they choose confrontation, do not hurt them.” 

“His head appeared from here! This room. They are in here!” A distinctly familiar feminine voice could be heard from the corridor. 

Rowgond stifled a groan as he, Halbarad, and Boromir braced their full weight against the door. “What joy, Boromir,” muttered Halbarad. “’Tis the fair maiden you are so fond of.” 

Boromir glared at the dark-haired Ranger. “She is no fair maiden of mine,” he snapped. 

Angry murmurs and shuffling feet paused on the other side of the door. Boromir tightened his grip on the doorknob and inhaled sharply as someone attempted to turn it. 

“Now listen here!” cried the serving maid’s voice, “We know you are in there!” 

Buoyed by Mysian’s fearlessness, the other men of the village began to chime in. “That’s right!” “Aye, we know you’re in there!” “Get them!” At the maid’s hushing, all fell silent. 

She cleared her throat. “Fenadoch does not shelter servants of the Dark Lord! Your attempts to fool and enchant us with your vile charms have failed!” 

Boromir furrowed his brow. Enchantment? Charms? 

“We do not serve the Dark Lord,” called Aragorn. “We serve the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. We apologize for any troubles we may have brought upon you. We wish to cause no harm, and seek only to leave your good village in a peaceful manner.” 

* 

Mysian watched as the armed village men exchanged glances amongst themselves and shuffled nervously. They appeared to be in no great hurry to face the Black Riders, and were willing to believe every sugarcoated word Strider spewed forth. The honey-haired girl could not believe her eyes. “Cowards,” she hissed defiantly to the men, causing more than one to flush in embarrassment. “They have already collapsed our bridge and kidnapped me!” She turned to a hawk-nosed peasant. “Astern, would you have these wicked men kidnap your own Linelle?” She placed her hands upon her hips as the hawk-nosed man shook his head. “Or you, Thorald? How should you like to discover your home burned to the ground and your prized heifer slain?” 

The toothless Thorald set his face into a hard grimace. “Le’ss ged dem,” he slurred, raising his gardening hoe to striking position. 

* * * 

An animalistic roar broke forth from the angry mob of townsfolk as they charged the door. Boromir and the two Rangers, their boots slipping on the worn floor, fought with all their might to keep the door shut. Despite their best efforts, the three men found it nigh impossible to do so. The door was slowly forced open as the peasants angrily lunged and pushed. 

“Aragorn!” cried Rowgond as he placed his back to the door and frantically tried to keep his feet from sliding out from under him, “Do something!” 

“Stay the door but a moment longer,” ordered the Heir of Isildur. He ran back to the window, where Malbeorn was already jerking open the cumbersome pane. 

“Hurry,” grunted Boromir, punching at an arm that snaked around the doorframe and clawed at him. 

Aragorn and Malbeorn had managed to wretch the glass open halfway, when suddenly a flaming bottle of liquor and cloth smashed through the top portion of the pane. The burlap curtains immediately caught fire and the two men jumped backwards with a cry of surprise. A ragged cheer erupted from the crowd below. Two more bottles were quick to follow; one shattering the moment it hit the floor while the other rolled under Rowgond’s bed. The straw mattress kindled akin to a dry bonfire, and within a matter of seconds the entire room was filled with smoke and dancing tongues of fire. 

“We must use the door,” coughed Aragorn, dropping to his knees and crawling towards the door. Fire licked and nibbled at his boots. He pressed his sleeve to his mouth and nose in desperate attempt to filter the smoke from his burning lungs. The room had become a roaring furnace of flame and smoke. 

Boromir watched in horror as the fire raced up the walls and rippled across the ceiling with a macabre beauty. Everything it touched curled and melted; leaving only charred shells and ashes. He knew his face was flushed from the heat and sweat began to bead and drip down his face. The doorknob was becoming slippery within his grasp. 

Halbarad coughed in the smoke and waved off pieces of flaming ash. “On the count of three, release the door!” The peasants on the other side redoubled their efforts, sensing their quarry was trapped. 

“One. . .” Aragorn and Malbeorn reached the door and staggered to their feet. “Two. . .” The muted threats of the townsfolk mingled with the roaring, cracking fire. “THREE!” 

Halbarad, Boromir, and Rowgond leapt backwards. The door burst open and peasants cried out in surprise as they tumbled into the flaming room. Wasting no time, Boromir and the Rangers shot through the doorway, plowing over the group of townsmen in the process. 

“Split and meet outside the city,” roared Aragorn as he bolted left and charged down the corridor. Boromir followed him, while the three remaining Rangers dashed to the right staircase. 

The peasants recovered themselves quickly and took up chase with shouts of vengeance. “Wrull while ouuuu khan, summ ubp Sahrwonll!” screamed toothless Thorald, gardening hoe singing through the air and spit flying from his mouth as though he were a rabid beast. Rowgond, utterly fascinated by the sight, paused to stare at the enraged farmer before Halbarad grabbed him by the arm and yanked him down the stairs. 

* * * 

Aragorn and Boromir sprinted to the left staircase and fled downwards, legs pumping furiously as they pounded the stairs. Unfortunately, the angry hornets’ nest of townsfolk outside the tavern had by this time swarmed into The Singing Mûmak. The two men suddenly found themselves trapped as angry mobs from both front and rear bore down upon them. 

Aragorn promptly realized such a desperate situation called for desperate measures. Praying to the Valar the bottom cartel of townsfolk was not armed with spear or pike, he threw caution to the wind and flung himself down the stairs with a fierce battle cry of “ELENDIL!” 

The plummeting Ranger hit the ascending group like a sack of flour, and all tumbled to the bottom of the staircase in a mass of arms, legs, and makeshift weapons. 

Boromir leapt over the pile of groaning bodies and hit the hallway at a dead run. He paused momentarily to see how Aragorn fared. The rugged man was fighting off several of the townsfolk, whose skills at weapon yielding were downright atrocious. Satisfied Aragorn could take care of himself, Boromir continued his flight. 

Past the astounded and sleepy faces of roused travelers poking their heads out of the doors he ran. Past the kitchen area (causing several serving maids to scream in terror and three cooks wielding knives to give chase) he ran. Past the main room, past the front counter he ran. Boromir did not stop running until he reached the stables, and then he stopped only to grab the tack of his steed Gehtront. He threw the saddle over the horse’s barreled back, fervently hoping the black steed would not swallow air to inflate his belly as he habitually did. 

Gehtront whinnied in protest as Boromir shoved the bit between his teeth and fastened the bridle. The normally even-tempered stallion did not appreciate being handled so roughly to say the least. “I suggest you hush,” snapped Boromir as he hastily checked the saddle girth one last time, “lest you wish to be roasted on an open flame by these imbecile townsfolk.” 

“Apparently, we are not as imbecile as you would think.” Boromir froze. He felt three prongs of a pitchfork digging uncomfortably into the flesh of his neck. 

He was caught. And worse, he had been captured by a woman, no less. But even worse, far, far worse, was who that woman was. 

“Turn around slowly, Borofara,” commanded Mysian. “Or I shall spear you.” 

Boromir carefully rotated his body, keeping his hands outstretched in a gesture of submission. The green eyes of Mysian glittered as the girl held up the pitchfork threateningly. Boromir sighed. “Let me go,” he began, “I have no wish to hurt you.” 

The rosy-cheeked maiden clenched her teeth. “Hah!” A short, angry laugh escaped her clamped jaw. “You are in no position to place demands, vile creature of Sauron!” 

Boromir rolled his eyes. This was becoming ridiculous. “For the last time, we are no servants of the Dark Lord!” He gingerly placed his hand upon the pitchfork and shoved it away from his face. “Now put that tool down before someone is injured.” 

Mysian growled and jabbed the fork back at him, causing the man of Gondor to jerk back his head. Boromir promptly grabbed the tool and wretched it from her hands. “Will you cease this?” he cried in exasperation. He disdainfully tossed the pitchfork to the side, where it hit the stable wall and fell into the straw. 

“You have been warned!” Mysian cried, her voice shrill and quivering. 

Boromir rolled his eyes again. “Of course,” he said in agitation, “I have been warned. And I assure you I am absolutely terrified. Now if you will just let me leave—“ 

Mysian let out a scream of rage. Boromir lifted his eyes towards the heavens and shook his head. Foolish girl. 

It was the first—and last—time the son of Denethor ever underestimated the power of an infuriated woman. 

The serving maid’s fist met the bridge of his nose with a solid _CRACK!_ He staggered backwards into his horse, eyes watering as red and yellow stars danced sickeningly in front of him. The pain was excruciating. His hands slid over the smooth coat of Gehtront before he toppled gently into the straw. 

* * * 

The western scouting party met in a ring of oak, ash, and thorn* trees directly outside the boundaries of Fenadoch. Aragorn was the last to arrive. The Ranger breathlessly looked about him. “Where is Boromir?” he inquired. 

Halbarad knit his brows together. “We thought he was with you.” 

Aragorn shook his head, stomach sinking. The four Rangers looked back to the town in dismay. A dark billow of smoke poured from the burning tavern and rose slowly into the air like a black marker of warning. “We are not riding back,” Halbarad stated flatly. “It would be suicide.” 

Roheryn shifted impatiently under Aragorn, causing the rings on his halter to jingle. “We have no choice,” said Aragorn. “He is one of the representatives of the Fellowship.” 

“But we have already agreed to meet Láthain and the others at Amon Sûl.* If we are delayed any longer, we shall miss them.” Halbarad’s voice rose hopefully. “Perhaps we could leave him here and rescue him on the return trip. What is the worse that could befall him—a week or two within a cell?” 

“An axe to the neck,” growled Malbeorn. Halbarad grimaced. 

Rowgond pulled at the neck of his cloak and sighed. “He does have a brother…” the young Ranger muttered under his breath. 

******* 

_*A ring of oak, ash, and thorn: Interesting tidbit of Celtic lore for you. The Celts believed a grove of oak, ash, and thorn trees was a “fairy ring” and avoided such places. I don’t know if the people of Middle-earth hold this superstition, but it’s plausible._

_*Amon Sûl: Weathertop, i.e- Where Frodo Was Stabbed._


	19. Highlands and Lows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

Shadowfax suspiciously regarded the grey wizard bounding over the hills as though the entire army of Mordor were on his heels. The stallion thoughtfully chewed a mouthful of clover and flicked his tail, wondering if he ought to sidle into the birch grove or stand his ground. The wizard was quite a sight to behold; that much was certain. Shadowfax could not remember when he had last seen Gandalf dashing pell-mell over any distance.

The Istari’s robes flapped behind him in huge billows; he resembled a sheet of grey laundry gone awry if anything. His tangled beard and hair flew in all directions and dandelion fluff and fallen leaves rose disturbed into the air as he dashed by. His staff swung perilously, nearly striking the wizard in the head several times. 

Shadowfax ripped another mouthful of clover from the earth and alertly turned his head back to Gandalf. Then he eyed the birch grove. 

_Gandalf._

_Birch grove._

_Gandalf._

_Birch grove._

The wizard reached the foot of one of the pasture’s loping hills and began to charge up it. Shadowfax could hear him shouting wildly. “EAGLES! WE MUST FIND THE HOBBITS! THEY DO NOT KNOW!” Shadowfax quickly made his choice. The Istari was a raving madman. 

Panting in exertion, Gandalf came to the summit of the pasture. He paused a moment, then whirled around several times. He was positive he had seen Shadowfax grazing atop the hill. Where had the horse disappeared? “Shadowfax,” roared Gandalf, “Come! I’ve no time for games!” 

A low nicker from behind caught his ear, and the wizard turned to see an Elvish mare gesturing her delicate head towards a stand of birch. The coppery horse regarded the wizard with her warm brown eyes as he glared at the trees. 

Gandalf had to give Shadowfax some credit—the stallion blended in perfectly with the silver birches. The Elvish mare pricked her ears forward in a friendly manner while Gandalf tried to discern Shadowfax from the trees. She lowered her head and approached him, giving him a gentle nudge with her head. The wizard stroked her soft velvety nose and sighed in frustration. He felt the mare’s warm breath on his hand as she snorted in appreciation. The copper mare belonged to Elrond, and Gandalf knew the Elf lord was very particular when choosing his horses. 

The wizard glanced at the birch grove out of the corner of his eye and caught Shadowfax’s head peering at him from behind a slender tree. Gandalf pretended he had not seen the stallion and continued stroking the mare thoughtfully, taking in her comforting horsy smell. 

_‘You have already “borrowed” Shadowfax from Théoden,’_ the wizard mused, deciding the arrogant King of the Mearas a lost cause. _‘There is no harm in “borrowing” this beauty from Elrond.’_ Of course, Elrond had not offered Gandalf his pick of steeds as Théoden had done. Gandalf stifled a very inappropriate laugh. Théoden had been livid; he had not expected the wizard to demand his prized stallion. Gandalf supposed Elrond would be furious too. Perhaps even more so than Rohan’s Lord of the Mark. 

“It is for the sake of Middle-earth,” the wizard announced to the long-limbed mare. She bobbed her head in agreement and lipped at Gandalf’s hair. Gandalf gave a sharp nod to no one in particular, and, making sure Elrond was not in the vicinity to witness his rather questionable “borrowing,” the wizard swiftly mounted and rode off into the forest. 

Shadowfax snorted in disbelief as the wizard rode off on an Elvish horse. And a _mare_ , no less! His pride thoroughly insulted, the stallion stomped his forefoot and squealed in anger. With a flick of his long tail, he wheeled and trotted off in direct pursuit of Gandalf and the mare. 

* * * 

Merry sat miserably in his bed, several down pillows propped comfortably behind his back. _‘It’s not fair,’_ he thought with a scowl. _‘I feel so useless!’_ He gave one of the pillows a punch and winced as the movement jarred his broken collarbone. Everyone else was involved in the search for Frodo, Sam, and Pippin, except him. Even Bilbo could be found pouring over maps in the hopes of finding some clues as to the others’ whereabouts. Merry had begged them to let him help, but Elrond would not hear of it. The Lord of Rivendell ordered the young hobbit to bed rest, claiming that it would help the Elvish medicine to work more efficiently. 

Merry scowled again. “You must rest, Meriadoc Brandybuck.” He raised his eyebrows and stuck out his jaw, attempting to mimic Elrond’s cool seriousness. The Elf lord’s aristocratic accent was more difficult to conjure. Merry cleared his throat and tried again. “You must—“ he lowered his voice and smoothed out the words, _“—You must rest, Meriadoc Brandybuck.”_

Merry snickered to himself. He set his face again and continued talking “in Elrond,” as he termed it. “I am a great healer. I order you to rot here in bed. Now I shall mutter my Elvish words of healing: _lasta berta nin hilo jigger thingy woooo.”_

Poking fun at the Elf lord, however, soon grew tiresome. Merry leaned his head back and began counting the number of leaves sculpted into the ceiling. He reached fifty-eight, then a bird chirruped outside his window, startling him and causing him to forget which leaves he had been counting. 

“That’s it!” he cried in frustration. “I refuse to be worthless anymore! Don’t worry Pippin, Frodo, and Sam—I’m coming!” With a great sweep of his good arm, the hobbit threw back the covers and swung himself over the side of the bed. 

Unfortunately, the sheets became entangled around the cast on his leg. Merry lost his balance and fell ungracefully to the floor with a loud _THUMP_. Tears sprang to his eyes as both his leg and collarbone, not to mention his forehead (which met the ground with a painful crack), caused white-hot flashes of pain to sear through his body. 

“I’m. . . coming,” he panted, grunting as he dragged himself across the floor. 

It took him a good ten minutes to reach the door. Merry looked up and was about to stretch to the door handle when he noticed that, to his surprise, the door was already open. Lord Elrond stood leaning against the doorframe. 

Merry groaned. Why were Elves always so quiet in their movements? The hobbit set his face into a determined scowl and looked up at the Elf lord. The task required an even greater craning of the neck than usual, for Merry was still lying on the floor. “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Elrond, but I need to go find my friends.” 

Elrond’s face did not betray his thoughts, though Merry thought he saw a twinkle in the Elf’s eyes. “Meriadoc Brandybuck,” he began sternly, “you were told not to leave your bed. And how do you intend to search for your companions when you are barely capable of walking?” 

“I can walk,” Merry sullenly replied. “I’m just resting for a moment, that’s all.” 

Elrond arched a brow and silently reprimanded the hobbit with his stern grey eyes. Merry looked away and felt himself blush. Then, to his horror, Elrond knelt and gently scooped him up as though he were nothing more than a small child. Walking swiftly to the bed, Elrond deposited Merry back into it and tightly wrapped the covers around the hobbit. Merry discovered he could barely move, so secure were his blankets. 

He could do naught but watch as Elrond, softly humming to himself, stepped out of the room momentarily and returned with a cup of steaming tea. The Lord of Imladris brought the cup to Merry’s lips. “Drink,” he said pleasantly. 

Merry clamped his lips shut and averted his head. “No thank you, I don’t really like—“ 

_“Drink,”_ Elrond ordered. 

Merry gulped and downed the hot tea in five seconds flat. “There.” Elrond smiled. He gave Merry a fond pat on the head as he rose to leave. Merry tried to dispatch his fiercest glare upon the Elf lord, but found it to be most difficult because the room was blurring and his eyelids had grown so heavy... 

* * * 

“ACHOO!” 

Pippin’s sneeze, amplified threefold as it bounced to and fro between various boulders peppering the mountainside, was the first sound to greet the dawn. 

Then came a loud sniffle, which preceded a whispered “I’m sorry,” to be followed by a muffled smack and an irritated “Ouch!” 

Frodo, Sam, and Pippin had managed to stumble across the crumbled ruins of some long-forgotten folk, and spent the night sheltered underneath the weathered remains of a collapsed wall. Sam had built a small fire, assuring the others the birds were long gone, and cooked a surprisingly sustaining meal of mushrooms (which grew plentiful in the mossy, decaying settlement) and lichen, wrapped in broadleaf and seasoned with wild garlic. Pippin was at first wary of eating lichen, or as he termed it, “tree mould,” but the young hobbit’s stomach won him over in the end. 

Thus, it was a well-rested trio, albeit somewhat torn and tattered, which began to descend the heights once the morning broke. The forested mountains had gradually become more barren as they were shuttled southward by the crebain, and now the land had a decidedly highland texture to it. Trees were few and far between, and the land became a mixture of short grasses, boulders, and rocky ravines. 

“ACHOO!” 

Sam turned and glared up at Pippin. “Mister Frodo, I think he’s trying to call the birds back.” 

Pippin sniffled again and hopped down from the boulder he had been climbing over. “I am not. I can’t help it.” 

“At least cover your mouth,” grumbled Sam. 

“Come on you two,” chided Frodo, who was in the lead, “Bickering won’t help us get to the bottom any faster.” 

Pippin climbed atop another boulder. “It’s too bad we can’t fly.” 

Sam snorted incredulously. “Did you hear that, Mister Frodo? We’re stolen away by birds, and when we finally manage to escape, he—“ Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Pippin, “—wishes to go back up in the air!” 

Frodo only shook his head and tried not to smile. 

Pippin paused from his position atop the rock. “No, but it would be faster,” he insisted. He began to flap his arms experimentally. “Did you notice that they didn’t flap their wings straight up and down?” 

Sam, again turning back up to Pippin, looked at the young hobbit as though he were daft. 

“It was more a figure-eight pattern,” continued Pippin. He slowed his arms and began moving them in carefully sculpted figure-eights. “It only looked like they went up and down because they moved so fast.” He increased the speed of his arms until Sam thought he looked as though waving frantically to the rocks on either side of him. 

_‘Either that,’_ decided Sam, _‘or his hands are burning.’_ He shook his head in exasperation. Trust Pippin to notice the crebain flight methods. 

Pippin bent into a low crouch and sprang from the boulder, arms waving furiously in the air as he tried to keep the figure-eight pattern. He landed on the ground with a grunt and put out his hands to prevent himself from tumbling over headfirst. He sighed in disappointment as he stood up and brushed the dirt from his palms. “I can’t move my arms fast enough.” 

“Hobbits don’t belong in the air, Pip,” offered Frodo, breath hanging in misty puffs in the chill air. 

Sam nodded in agreement. “That’s right. We belong on the ground, and I think that’s where we should stay.” He turned a severe eye on Pippin. “Now enough of this business about flying and such.” 

Pippin opened his mouth to reply, but sneezed instead. 

“How long do you suppose it will take us to reach the Anduin?” he asked, staring dubiously at the pale blue sky. He stuck out his hand experimentally as the odd snowflake tumbled down from above. 

“I’m not sure,” replied Frodo. “Perhaps three or four days.” The trio had decided the river Anduin would carry them towards Mordor far faster than their own legs were able. Sam pulled his cloak tightly around his stout frame. “Look,” he cried, pointing to the cheerful thatched roofs and cropped fields below. 

Frodo sighed in relief. “Thank goodness,” he breathed. “I was beginning to worry we would never reach the bottom.” 

Sam fingered the three gold coins in his pocket. “A bowl of stew and a cup of ale would have me set for the whole winter,” he happily declared. His stomach rumbled in agreement. 

The three hobbits increased their pace, watching the welcoming village grow larger as they descended down the grassy slopes. Sheep, newly shorn, lifted their heads and bleated as the trio passed by. Several knobby-kneed lambs trotted curiously after them. 

“Allo! Voz-et do?” A thin and wiry boy, pale-skinned and freckled, regarded them with open curiosity. He wore heavy boots and thick woolen clothing. Ginger-colored hair stuck out haphazardly from beneath his beige woolen cap, and the wind had painted his cheeks almost as red as his hair. He looked to be no older than eight years of age. 

Frodo shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he called in the Common Tongue, “but we don’t understand.” 

The boy set down his knapsack--which Pippin could not help but notice contained quite a bit of food, picked up a stout shepherd’s staff, and ran up to meet them. A handsome black dog with white muzzle, chest, and paws loped at his heels. The dog’s long-haired tail wagged kindly. “I said hello,” said the child, a bright grin resting upon his countenance. His accent was smooth and flowing, and Frodo decided it was quite pleasing on the ears. “Where did you come from? It is dangerous for us to play up in the mountains. Where are your parents?” 

The wiry child stopped short when he noticed the hobbits’ strange dress and unshod feet. “You are not children,” he exclaimed in awe, pale blue eyes staring unabashedly at the trio. 

“No,” replied Pippin cheerfully. “We’re hobbits. I’m Pippin. That’s Sam, and this is Frodo.” 

Sam gave a shy wave and Frodo smiled. 

“ _Hob-bits?”_ asked the boy, his brow furrowing while he tasted the strange word on his tongue. He peered at their slightly pointed ears. “Are you a kind of Mountain Elf?” 

Sam’s eyes widened. “Did you hear that, Mister Frodo? He thinks we’re Elves!” 

Frodo laughed. “No, no. We’re not Elves. Just hobbits. Halflings or Pheriannath, if you prefer.” 

“Are all. . _. hobbits_. . . this short?” asked the pale boy. These strange creatures from the mountains intrigued him. 

Pippin nodded. “Yes, we’re all about this height.” He looked wistfully at the boy’s knapsack. “Say...” he trailed off. 

“Oh,” the boy quickly replied. “Allin. I am Allin.” He gestured to the dog sitting quietly at his feet. “This is Nwahr*.” The dog barked in recognition of his name and opened his mouth in the friendly grin only canines possess. His fluffy tail thumped on the cold ground. 

“Right—Allin,” continued Pippin. “You wouldn’t happen to mind sharing your lunch with three hungry travelers, would you?” 

The ginger-haired boy shook his woolen-clad head. “Not at all.” He scampered back to his foodstuff, grabbed the sack, and quickly returned to the hobbits. The boy watched in amazement as they ravenously consumed his lunch. “Are you sure you cannot grow any bigger?” he asked incredulously, wondering where the small folk stored all the food. 

Pippin shook his head and took a swig of cider; despite the fact his mouth was already stuffed with bread and cheese. Frodo paused to swallow a mouthful. “We haven’t eaten in quite a while,” he explained apologetically, reaching for another roll. Sam tried to agree, but could only produce a muffled grunt, as he had shoved an entire strip of dried lamb into his mouth. Pippin sneezed, and unwilling to spit out the food crammed into his mouth, started choking. Sam gave the young hobbit several hearty thumps on the back. 

“Even my Onkleh Teebow could not eat as much,” the shepherd boy said in awe. “And he is this big!” Allin stretched his hand as far above his head as he could. “Why have you not eaten in several days? Are you being punished? Who is punishing you?” The faithful dog Nwahr softly padded around in a circle before settling at the boy’s feet. “Did you get into a fight?” he asked, noticing the group’s battered appearance. “I got into a fight once. With Filleep. But he started it, not I.” 

Pippin gnawed on a rough crust of bread. “We were attacked.” 

Allin’s pale eyes grew round. “Attacked? Attacked by whom? Were you in a real battle? With swords and stabbing and blood and _Aargh!_ with an _Oooh_! and a _Yaaaaah!_ ” In his excitement, the boy jumped to his feet and began whirling and ducking, stabbing at imaginary foes with an invisible sword. The black dog raised his furry brows and glanced at the hobbits with his chocolate eyes, as if to say, _“Forgive my boy, he sometimes gets carried away.”_

Dispatching his last foe with a deft flick of the wrist, Allin plopped back down onto the grassy hillock. Despite the cold gusts of wind and occasional snowflake, he unlaced his outer tunic and removed his woolen cap. His hair matted to his forehead and stood out at odd angles. “Some day I shall be a great warrior,” he stated proudly. “Like my father and his father before him.” 

“I do not doubt it,” replied Frodo, accepting the sheepskin flask from Sam and gratefully taking a sip of cider. He passed the flask to Allin, who took a long draught. 

“Actually, we were attacked by birds,” said Pippin. “Crebain.” 

Allin leaned back and cocked an eyebrow. “Those little black birds?” 

Sam grimaced and touched his healing lip. “Nasty little beasts.” 

“Yes,” agreed Pippin. “There was a huge flock of them. They swooped down and carried us off, just like that! It was dreadful.” A shadow passed over his face as he was again reminded of Merry’s fate. 

Allin let out a breath of disbelief. “They flew into the sky with you? Mon Valo! Why?” 

Sam shifted uncomfortably and Pippin fell silent. “They were... they were trying to stop us from reaching the river Anduin,” replied Frodo after a moment. 

Allin nodded gravely. “Ahh. There was a large flock of l’wazoh nwahr*—crebain you say—that flew overhead yester-eve. My sister Laure was frightened and began to cry.” He sat up straight and puffed out his chest. “I did not cry, though. I was not scared. I looked at the great flock and shook my fist at them—just like this!” Allin scowled ferociously and shook his fist at the empty sky. “And then I yelled to them: _Mushay rapeedimont l’wazoh nwahr! Jeh nay pehr pah!”*_

“That was very brave of you,” Sam commented politely. He wondered if the boy had been huddled under the safety of his bedcovers at the time. 

“Why are you traveling to the Anduin?” asked the boy as he fondly scratched the dog behind his satiny black ear. 

“To ride the river,” Pippin replied quickly. 

“To fish,” said Sam in the exact breath. 

“To visit my aunt,” replied Frodo at the same time. 

Allin looked at them in confusion. “Er, we’re going to visit my aunt so we can fish and ride the river,” Frodo stated lamely. 

Allin shrugged. “Does she have a nice boat?” 

“What?” asked the hobbits in unison. 

Allin again shot them a curious glance. “A boat,” he repeated. “Battoh. Does she have a nice boat?” 

“No,” responded Pippin without thinking. “We don’t have a boat.” 

Allin drew up his skinny knees to his chest and loosely hugged them. “If she does not have a boat, how are you to fish and ride the river?” 

Frodo blinked, realizing they had not actually thought of how they would procure a boat. He, Sam, and Pippin had simply decided they would take a boat, and that was that. It was a rather large problem. Frodo wondered how they had managed to overlook it. 

Pippin’s face looked as distressed as Frodo felt. “How are we supposed to travel without a boat?” he cried. 

“I don’t know,” murmured Frodo, frowning. 

“Perhaps your aunt will buy one,” suggested the boy. 

“Who?” asked Frodo, still lost in thought. 

“Your aunt.” 

“My aunt?” 

Allin blinked. “Yes, the one you are going to visit.” These hobbits were such a strange folk! He was about to ask them if they were ill, then bit his tongue. It was very impolite to suggest such a thing. 

“Yes, of course,” mumbled Frodo. How on Arda were they going to get a boat? 

Allin picked at his wooden shepherd’s staff while the three hobbits silently brooded. Tiny, perfect snowflakes began to fall softly from the heavens, though they melted the moment they met the ground. The boy re-laced his outer tunic and pulled his woolen cap back over his head. The loyal dog Nwahr rested his paws over Allin’s outstretched legs and laid his chin upon the boy’s knees. The ginger-haired child patted him affectionately. 

“ACHOO!” Pippin sniffled loudly. “Excuse me.” 

The hours slipped by uneventfully as Allin tended to his father’s flock and told the hobbits of life in Pahtoh. It was a small village, one of many scattered throughout the pass. According to Allin, his people were descendents of great nomadic tribes who used to roam the vast expanse of Hollin and beyond. They were a sturdy, rugged folk; farmers by trade and warriors at heart. “My ancestors fought in the Last Alliance,” the boy proclaimed proudly, fire burning in his pale eyes. “Alongside the Elves and Dúnedain.” 

The hobbits, in turn, sang songs of their kindred and regaled the boy with delightful tales of lore as only the hobbits themselves can tell. Frodo was in the middle of recounting a story Bilbo had told him as a child—about a resourceful hobbit named Wilbo Caggins and how he was forced to outsmart the wicked Modelia Rackville-Caggins, a decrepit, bitter hobbit woman who wanted to steal his fortune (Frodo privately suspected Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had never heard the tale)—when Allin suddenly stood and squinted into the gradually darkening sky. 

“What is it?” asked Frodo. 

The ginger-haired boy shaded his eyes with a pale hand. “L’wazoh,” he murmured. “A bird. And a very big one at that!” 

“A bird?” asked Pippin, his voice containing an undeniable ring of panic. The boy nodded, and, as if on cue, the dark speck above them slowly descended and became more visible. Sam shuddered. The bird was monstrous. Its wingspan was greater than five Bag Ends stretched end-to-end. 

The hobbits shrank close to the hard ground and Allin stared slack-jawed as the great bird wheeled above them. It let forth a cry that speared straight through them. Sheep bleated in terror and fled down the hills as fast as their knobby legs would carry them. The black dog Nwahr cried out in a strangled yelp before tucking his tail between his legs and whining at the feet of Allin. The villagers working the fields in the land below immediately halted their tasks and called to one another, their voices containing a mixture of fear and awe. Some claimed it was a great dragon; others said it was the spirit of some long-departed Vala. 

“Come!” cried the boy to the quaking hobbits. “We will run to my father’s house. The giant bird will not find you there!” 

* * * 

The great eagle Landroval circled and cried once more, voice carrying fierce and long on the cold wind. His keen amber-flecked eyes caught sight of the three hobbits, boy-child, and black dog fleeing below him. Why did the hobbits flee? 

Confused, the brother of Gwaihir the Windlord abruptly halted his descent. He would not risk startling the villagers any more than he already had. He decided to seek the hobbits out in the morning. With a final cry, which sent shivers down the spines of those below, he gave his massive wings a powerful flap and wheeled back up to the icy heights. 

******* 

_If you haven’t guessed by now, Allin’s language is nothing more than phonetically spelled French. Many apologies for its slaughter—it really is a beautiful language. It’s been four years, so the grammar might be a bit sketchy._

_*Nwahr: Noir. Black._

_*L’wazoh nwahr: l’oiseau noir. The black bird._

_* Mushay rapeedimont l’wazoh nwahr! Jeh nay pehr pah!: Mouchez rapidement l’oiseau noir! Je n’ai peur pas! Fly quickly black bird! I have no fear!_


	20. Trial and Errors, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

__**A/N** :  
Kudos to Denethor for being such a good sport while I poke fun at him, though the poor guy didn’t exactly have a choice.

**Character List**

Mysian- Barmaiden the Rangers accidentally kidnapped. Punched Boromir. 

_~Eastern Scouting Party~_

Barin- Dwarf from the Lonely Mountain 

Orimhedil- Elf warrior from Imladris 

Glorfindel 

Glóin 

Gimli 

Legolas 

******* 

_Chink! Chink! Chink! Chink!_

Boromir slowly dragged his severely dented tin cup across the prison bars. He had straightened his nose back into place a few hours ago, and his eyes had finally ceased watering. Unfortunately, his nose was swelling hideously, making breathing from it impossible, and he was fairly certain the deep bruises forming underneath his eyes were not exactly flattering. 

_Clang! Clang!_

If he hit the bars with the bottom of the cup, he was rewarded with a lower metallic ring. 

_Chink! Clang! Chink!_

Soon, the Man of Gondor had a full-blown symphony: _Chink! Chink! Clang! Chink! Ping! Clang! Ping! Ping!_

Boromir was thoroughly enjoying himself, despite his dismal situation. He struck up, or rather, attempted to strike up, an old Gondorian march; hitting the iron bars in different sections with alternating angles of his tin cup. He stopped somewhere amidst the line of _“Gondor blades are just and true”_ when he noticed the glare being thrown at him by his jailor. With a sigh, he dropped the cup and sat back down onto the wooden cell bench. 

He leaned his back against the stone wall and closed his eyes. The wall was cold and damp. Boromir supposed the air smelled musty and sharp, but he could not be certain, as his nose was currently not functioning properly. It felt strangely foreign and obtrusive on his face. Boromir reached up to touch it, and then thought better of the idea and dropped his hand. 

_‘This is quite a mess indeed,’_ he mused, a phrase he had repeated to himself constantly throughout the day. There were no faults he could find in his prison: the walls were solid and held no holes; the iron bars were wrought of a good craft and showed no weakness. He had hoped the small barred window might offer some means of escape, but its bolts were secure and its bars sturdy. Boromir allowed himself to slide downward on the bench with a grunt. He sighed and stared up at the ceiling, noticing the many messages carved along his cell’s walls. 

_“Brewil was here. 2955 Third Age.”_

_“Hagan is innocent.”_

_“The end is near.”_

_“Silinrain stole my sword.”_

_“I saw a rat/ his name was Cor/ he could squeeze/ right through the door.”_

Boromir pondered for several minutes what he should write upon the walls. It would have to be clever, that much was certain. Something that hinted at whom he was—for it must not give his true identity away. Something that proclaimed his innocence; that told of a terrible mistake. _‘A man in black sits in this cell,’_ Boromir recited. _‘Innocent and… hmmmm.’_ He should probably leave out the part where the mysterious man in black is punched in the face by the serving maiden. 

_‘Which brings me to yet another dilemma,’_ he thought with a scowl that turned into a wince as sharp pain ran up the bridge of his nose. The serving maiden. _‘Mysian, was it? Yes—Mysian.’_ Boromir had always been a favorite among the ladies. But this one… She hated him. It was a situation he was altogether unfamiliar with, and left him utterly baffled. All women were fond of the son of Denethor, it went against standard protocol that one should not be. 

_‘This must be changed,’_ he decided resolutely. _‘And since it does not appear I shall be leaving this vicinity any time soon,’_ he glanced about the solid room in resignation, _‘I suppose I have nothing better to do than focus on the task at hand.’_

As he had no experience with women whom detested him, Boromir drew from the only source he knew: Denethor’s private stock of harlequin romance novels. 

It was a little-known fact that Denethor, Twenty-sixth Steward of Gondor, was a hopeless romantic. Denethor took great pains to conceal his embarrassing secret, lest anyone discover his passion for the harlequin romances. It was true that since the death of his wife Finduilas the Steward had become steely and grim, but he had never hardened so completely as to be void all feelings of love. 

Only three others knew of his fondness for the books. Of the three, Denethor was only aware of one. He had managed to coerce his captain of the Citadel Guards, Beregond, into buying the short tales for him (a task which Beregond loathed, for the shopkeepers would snicker at him behind his back as he left with armloads of the cheap books), but it was by pure accident that Boromir and Faramir had stumbled across their father’s guilty pleasure. 

Boromir had been fourteen at the time, Faramir nine. The two brothers were poking around some dusty and long-forgotten chamber in Minas Tirith when they uncovered boxes and boxes of the novels. Faramir, ever the reader, immediately snatched one up and began reading its contents aloud: _“…She was an orphaned girl, the most beautiful there ever was and ever will be. Yet she could remember nothing of herself due to the bump she had received on the head, courtesy of a passing army of orcs. The only clue to her past was a strange hair pin…”_ He had continued reading until dissolving into howling fits at the part where a brave prince rescued the girl from three thousand dragons and she collapsed into his arms. 

_“’She looked into his deep’_ … hahaha…ahem… _‘his deeeeep blue-green eyes and’_ … hee hee hee… _‘felt herself fall into the endless depths of his soul’_ —HAHAHAHAHA!” Faramir laughed so hard he began snorting uncontrollably. He clutched at his sides and rolled on the floor in hysterics. 

Boromir laughed, though somewhat half-heartedly. He would rather die than admit it, but he wanted to know how the story ended. 

“To whom do these belong to?” Faramir asked when he had sufficiently recovered. He tossed the book carelessly back into the box and wiped away the dirt from his jerkin. “They are terrible!” 

Boromir knelt before another box and blew away the dust and cobwebs. He opened it and randomly selected a book. As he flipped through it, he noticed the tales contained rough sketches: here was one of a gallant knight sparring with some strange creature; there was one of a wavy-haired princess bedecked in jewels. Boromir was fascinated. He wanted to read them all. 

In the following weeks, the brothers came to realize their father frequented that particular wing of the castle quite a bit. “They belong to him!” Faramir declared gleefully. Though only nine, the youngest son of Denethor was prone to worry about issues that only adults were plagued by. He once confided to his older brother he was concerned their father “was in danger of building an insurmountable wall around himself, which enables him to shut everyone else out.” Boromir often wondered where his little brother picked up such vocabulary, as it was obviously not his own. 

Thus began Boromir’s love affair with the books, and he read them whenever he could slip away unnoticed to Denethor’s dusty recluse. 

Boromir recalled the stories he had read where the female characters hated the men. According to these books, for they all followed the same storyline, the female characters were actually madly in love with the men, but did not know it. _‘Therefore,’_ reasoned Boromir, ‘ _this fair maiden must be madly in love with me.’_ But how to make her realize this was true? Boromir pondered the thought for several moments. Obviously, he could not rescue her. There was nothing to rescue her from, not to mention the fact he was locked away in a prison cell. Perhaps a roving band of orcs would choose to attack the village. Then he would come bounding to the rescue: sword flashing in the sun, Horn of Gondor sounding deadly upon his lips. 

He shook his head. Where would this band of orcs come from? And again, he was still locked within the cell. He also had the distinct feeling Mysian would be able to take care of herself should any orc attempt to make off with her. Boromir grimaced and felt sorry for the hapless orc foolish enough to try. 

Then, as though struck by a bolt of lightening, it hit him. _‘Of course!’_ he thought triumphantly. _‘I must kiss her!’_ It was all so simple, why hadn’t he realized it earlier? Why, all he had to do was place a small kiss upon her lips, and the maiden would fall head over heels for him. Then she would release him from the prison cell, and they would run off together. 

Boromir frowned. Running off with Mysian was not exactly what he wanted, but he supposed under the given circumstances, it was better than his current situation. Mayhap Faramir would grow to love her. She had the potential to be a nice sister-in-law. 

* * * 

Legolas sat in miserable silence upon his horse. Of all the horrible punishments Glorfindel could have extracted upon him, the Elf lord had done something far worse: nothing at all. He had not looked at nor spoken to Legolas since the previous night. Actually, no one was speaking to Legolas. It was as though he didn’t exist. Even Orimhedil, who usually sided with the Mirkwood Elf, would not acknowledge him. 

Legolas bowed his head in shame and stared at Mithlaf’s shoulders as the horse walked onward. In his current state of exile, it seemed to be an unspoken rule that the son of Thranduil ride in the back of the company, where no one would have to look at him. This, Legolas did not mind, for his appearance left much to be desired. His eyebrows were completely burnt off and his hair hung in fried tatters around his shoulders. His face had begun to heal, and now only his nose, cheeks, and ears remained bright red and scorched. Thankfully, he wore his hair in the preferred style of most archers: pulled back at the top and plaited into small braids on either side of his head. Had they not been as such, he would have most likely lost all the hair framing his face. As had befallen Glorfindel. 

Legolas raised his head and risked a glance at the captain of Imladris riding in front of him. Glorfindel’s back was rigid, and blackened spikes of what was once luxurious golden hair stuck upward from his forehead, somehow managing to defy gravity in their crispy state. 

From there, Legolas allowed his eyes to slide over to the Dwarves. Their beards had been singed away to nothing more than long stubble. Poor Barin had lost his completely. It was the strangest sight Legolas had ever seen, for without their beards, Dwarves apparently resembled lumpy-faced old men. 

It had taken the company a better part of the morning to convince Barin he should go on living. The de-bearded Dwarf had lain down on the frosty ground; head buried in his arms, claiming he would rather die than live with the shame of losing his beard. 

“Mahal take me now!” he sobbed, voice muffled by his arms, “I cannot go on! Never again will I face my kin, for I am shamed! I am an abomination!” 

Gimli, who had great blisters covering his nose, cheeks, and forehead, along with Glóin, who had similar afflictions, took their distraught comrade into the bushes and fashioned Barin’s hood around his face in a makeshift scarf. Barin’s new mask did not replace his beard, but it did save him from further embarrassment. 

Legolas’ eyes flicked over to Gimli, whom he had privately begun to refer to as _‘Master Stub.’_ The Elf was almost on the verge of provoking the son of Glóin, just so the Dwarf might speak to him. Anything was better than the terrible silence he was being forced to endure. He watched the Dwarf’s shoulders as Gimli marched purposefully up the rocky mountain trail. Gimli’s whole body rotated with his movements, and though his form was rather box-shaped, his upper body seemed to hold the majority of his strength. Legolas found the unbalanced distribution somewhat disgusting. A body ought to be a thing of grace and fluid movement, not a trundling boulder. 

Gimli must have felt the Elf’s bright eyes watching him, for he suddenly stiffened and began to finger the handle of his axe. Legolas sighed, lowering his gaze, and stared dully at his hands. He did not deal well with guilt, and at the moment he was wallowing in it. He was still unable to bring himself to look directly at Glóin, knowing the elder Dwarf had treated him with relative acceptance since the very beginning. Legolas, in turn, had repaid his kindness by flinging the stately Dwarf into a pond and nearly roasting him on an open flame. He highly doubted, and rightly so, that Glóin would be near as friendly towards him in the immediate future. 

_‘How long have I been allowed to participate in the hunting parties?’_ he asked himself. _‘I have been considered an adept warrior for many seasons now. But a warrior would not foolishly endanger the lives of his companions as I have. We could have been beset by Sauron’s minions while cooling our burns in the stream, or while we were salving the wounds this morning.’_ He absentmindedly entwined the mane of Mithlaf in his slender fingers. His father had finally allowed him to travel to Imladris without supervision (granted, Thranduil had been trying to rid himself of his “feisty” youngest child), and Legolas had managed to ruin the journey in just about every way imaginable. He had even created trouble when there was none to be found. _‘At least,’_ he thought wryly, _‘no deaths may be attributed to my embarrassing behavior… Thus far.’_

He wondered what it was that caused him to attract trouble so easily. His second eldest brother Calengaladh had once accused him of craving attention as willows crave water. Legolas was beginning to suspect Calengaladh might have had a valid point. _‘Must I always be the center of attention?’_ he wondered. Was he truly nothing more than Thranduil’s brat? 

The young Elf clenched his fists and set his jaw in stubborn defiance. There was more, much more to him than that. And now he must prove it. _‘I shall no longer allow myself to engage in worded sparring with Master Stub,’_ he decided resolutely. _‘The pranks, I shall also cease, for they have caused nothing but added peril to our journey.’_

A sudden vision of Gimli, screaming in panicked terror as Legolas plucked a piece of bread roll from the Dwarf’s forehead, sprang unbidden from some pleasant corner of his mind. Legolas felt a smile tug the corners of his lips in spite of himself. _‘Nay,’_ he hastily amended. _‘I shall only extract revenge upon Master Stub should he initiate conflict, therefore warranting such action. And,’_ he added in afterthought, recalling scenes from the previous night’s fiasco, _‘my actions shall pertain directly to the Dwarf, and to him alone.’_ Since he would no longer speak to the Dwarf lest dire need called for it, Legolas reasoned their conflict would have little chance of escalating to the proportions it had in days past. 

The son of Thranduil sat up a little straighter and lifted his chin. The pangs of guilt he felt at the appearance of the eastern scouting party had not abated, but now he accepted them. _‘Mayhap it is only the twinge in my shoulder I feel.’_ Legolas unconsciously rubbed the shoulder where the Orkish blade had scored him and frowned. It was not terribly deep, but was rather sore and aching. He decided to ignore it. Warriors did not indulge in the pain of their war wounds. 

He dismissed his tender shoulder without a second thought and turned his attention to the foreboding land about him. The High Pass had posed a difficult path to cross when he and his small Mirkwood company scaled the heights; the eastern scouting party would most likely reach it by noon of the next day. Jagged bits of icy rock protruded skyward, as though the jaws of some fell creature lie agape and waiting. A dry and bitter wind blustered over the fanged mountains, emitting a dull whine as the frozen rock bit into it. Legolas suppressed a shudder. The wind rushing through the High Pass had howled and shrieked as though it were being tortured. It was not a sound he wished to hear again. 

A few gnarled trees, so mutilated and twisted they more resembled claws, shivered contemptuously as the wind raged by. Legolas knew it was useless to speak with them, for their spirit was as grotesque as their appearance. He had attempted to do so, ignoring the warnings of Mirkwood’s captain, on the other side of the mountain when the trees had finally thinned, and was shocked to discover their jaded nature. They had openly cursed and taunted him. The slender Elf regarded the wiry abominations with heartsick pity as the company trekked by. The trees were afflicted by a darkness even the Elves could not cure. 

“It shall soon snow.” Legolas jumped at the sound of Glorfindel’s voice, which broke the group’s unofficial vow of silence. He regarded the Imladris captain curiously, wondering if he, too, was now permitted to speak. As Glorfindel still did not choose to acknowledge him any manner, Legolas surmised his voice was not yet granted permission to rejoin the conversation. He remained quiet and solemn, tilting back his head and surveying the blank sky. 

“It shall soon snow,” repeated the Elf lord briskly. “Be on the watch for a suitable camp.” 

“One,” added Glóin as he shielded his face from the stinging wind with his hand, “that provides us with enough cover from this dratted breeze.” 

“At least this ‘dratted breeze’ cools our blisters,” Gimli muttered under his breath. The keen ears of Glorfindel, Orimhedil, and Legolas heard his words quite clearly. Legolas bit his tongue. 

“We cannot risk becoming trapped,” replied Glorfindel, giving no indication of having overheard the Dwarf. He narrowed his eyes and looked out across the rocky landscape. 

“Trapped?” asked Gimli. 

Glorfindel nodded, though his eyes continued to roam the mountainside. “Yes, Master Gimli. Trapped. If we do not choose our camp wisely, we may find ourselves snowed in.” 

Orimhedil gently stroked his steed as the horse shook his head impatiently. “It is a common occurrence amongst deer of the forest,” he interjected. “They seek shelter and warmth within the confines of some thick pine glen, only to become trapped when the snow drifts and hardens. They find themselves penned in, and eventually starve or are picked off by predators.” 

Legolas had mind to mention the *Fell Winter of 2911, when nearly the entire population of Mirkwood deer had fallen victim (as had two Elves) to such an instance, but then realized his comments would most likely fall upon deaf ears. The herds had sought out the protection of the trees, unwilling to leave their shelter in light of the raging blizzards. When at last their hunger drove them to face the cold, the snow had packed between the outer trees, reaching mammoth heights, and was crusted with an impenetrable layer of ice. The deer, despite their valiant efforts, could not escape. 

Thranduil ordered the starving creatures to be shot out of mercy, lest they all die a slow and emaciated death of hunger and disease. On the rare wintry days when weather permitted, Legolas—who had been about 450 at the time—would spend the frigid hours traversing the tree boughs (for the ground was too treacherous to walk upon) with the rest of the Mirkwood bowmen. When a herd was discovered, the Elves would gather in the branches above them and end their lives as quickly and painlessly as possible. It was an unpleasant task, but a necessary one. When at last the snows finally gave way to an overly wet spring, the Elves were forced to go back and retrieve the thawing carcasses. Huge pyres were built at the edge of the forest, and the deer were piled upon them and burned. The smell was revolting and had lingered over Mirkwood’s eaves for weeks. 

“Death in any guise would be a blessing,” moaned Barin, his thick hand gliding over his now beardless and masked face. “It would be a release from what I must now endure.” 

Legolas fought the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, he felt terrible for what he had done, but Barin’s whining was beginning to erode his nerves. His sympathy towards the Dwarf had waned tremendously within the past hour. 

Unfortunately, the son of Thranduil did not hide his disdain as well as he should have, and Gimli happened to notice his exasperation. “There is an old Dwarven custom,” he spoke to the group, though Legolas sensed the words were directed towards him in particular, “that states, ‘an axe for an axe; a boot for a boot.’” 

Glóin grumbled to himself, but did not speak up, and Barin’s eyes suddenly alighted with a wicked gleam. “It is only fair that the Elf suffer the same fate as Barin.” Gimli crossed his arms over his chest and smiled coldly. 

Legolas’ resolve to avoid arguing with the Dwarf vanished faster than a puff of smoke. “I did suffer the same fate as he,” he snapped, waving a slender hand over his burnt face. “We all did!” 

“But it was by your hand—“ 

“Nay, it was you whom picked the—“ 

“Let us cut off his precious hair!” Barin roared over the two of them, reaching for his axe. “Then perhaps you will learn your lesson, Brat of Thranduil!” 

“ENOUGH!” Glorfindel whirled around, eyes ablaze. “ENOUGH OF THIS!” The entire scouting party shrank back in fear. “There will be no more talk of revenge! There will be no more arguing, no more fighting, and no more petty insults! Should you even THINK of anything of the sort, I shall personally drag you down this mountain and all the way back to Imladris. Do you understand?” 

Legolas, Gimli, and Barin nodded dumbly. 

“GOOD,” snarled the golden-haired Elf lord, his burnt tufts of hair only adding to his menacing appearance. Fists tightly clenched, he closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply. When he opened them, he had completely regained his composure. “I sense there are many dark creatures within these rocky confines. We must work together if we hope to safely cross the High Pass.” 

Glóin grunted in agreement. “Let us find suitable shelter for the night,” he suggested. “Should it begin snowing too hard, the Elf or Dwarf on watch may wake the rest of the company so we do not meet the same fate as that of the deer.” 

“Agreed,” replied Glorfindel, turning and urging his mount forward. 

The bitter wind carried tiny, stinging snowflakes as it tore past the group. The blank sky was tinted a greyish hue and the icy mountain boulders appeared almost black in their frozen state. Hidden behind the jagged rocks, many pairs of gleaming eyes followed the eastern scouting party as they picked their way over the treacherous terrain. Night would fall soon enough; a frigid, snow-laden wind and creatures of shadow would gleefully follow. 

******* 

_*The Fell Winter of 2911: “The Baranduin and other rivers are frozen. White Wolves invade Eriador from the North.” – Return of the King, Appendix B: ‘The Tale of Years (Chronology of the Westlands).’ My interpretation of Legolas that he is around 550 (560) years old, and I place him as being born some time in the waning years of the Watchful Peace (2063-2460 S. A.)._


	21. Trial and Errors, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

The light jingle of keys being placed into the cell door caused Boromir to start. _‘I must have dozed off,’_ he thought, and quickly sat up. He nearly toppled back over when his vision began to swim and tunnel—a sign he had arisen far too swiftly than his battered head would allow.

The man of Gondor washed his hands over his face in attempt to dispel the sudden nausea, forgetting in the process that his nose was broken. He doubled over and groaned as he jarred the injury, causing pain to flare over the entire front of his face and tears to spring to his eyes. Sometime within the grasp of the searing pain, he also managed to slide off the bench. 

When the moment passed, Boromir was rather perturbed to discover himself lying on the floor; eyes watering, nose smarting, and a sizeable bump on the back of his head—courtesy of the bench or floor (from which, he was not quite certain). _‘By my sword,’_ he swore, _‘At this rate, I shall be my own undoing.’_

“’Eesss na doh skaweee.” Boromir wondered if perhaps the fall had muddled his head. He was positive the townsfolk had been perfectly understandable the day before. He slowly sat up and turned around. 

“Yes, you are right Thorald. I do not find him much threat to us either. His power must have been lost when the rest of his lowly pack disappeared.” 

Boromir sighed deeply. The girl Mysian and a very thin, wiry peasant with no teeth were standing in his cell. The bony peasant vehemently brandished a rickety gardening hoe at Boromir. Though the tool had undoubtedly been the death of many a weed, Boromir found the makeshift weapon completely non-threatening. Then again, he had also thought the same of Mysian. 

_‘The plan! Use the plan, you fool!’_ his mind began screaming. Boromir paused: the addition of the toothless farmer was unexpected. Would he have to somehow cause the old man to fall in love with him too? He could not recall Denethor’s books ever describing such a situation. 

He eyed the man, who was prone to drooling, and decided even by order of the Valar would he not kiss such a repulsive creature. Boromir was willing to perform many acts of desperation if it meant he might regain freedom, but kissing toothless old peasant men was where he drew the line. 

“Come Borofara, on your feet. The Council awaits.” Mysian, rosy-cheeked face void of any kindness, crossed her arms and narrowed her green eyes. 

Boromir blinked and furrowed his brow in confusion. “Council?” He had been to enough councils as of late, and none of them yielded pleasant results. “I have no need for such a meeting.” 

Thorald growled and mumbled something. “No, Thorald,” answered Mysian, addressed the wispy old man, “You need not hit him.” Boromir eyed the hoe-wielding peasant warily. Apparently, deciphering his words was an acquired ability. 

The honey-haired maiden turned back to Boromir. “You are to be brought before the leaders of Fenadoch and judged, Borofara.” 

Boromir’s jaw dropped. “Judged?” he cried. “What shall be the basis of this judgment? I have done no wrong!” 

Thorald emitted a snort, which caused his entire body to heave. “That is for the council to decide,” Mysian responded briskly. 

“I do not doubt they have already proclaimed me guilty.” 

Mysian did not meet his eye and shrugged as though it mattered not whether the council had already reached its decision. “You do not deny it,” exclaimed Boromir, an unsettled anxiety growing within him. “They have already declared me guilty.” 

“But you _are_ guilty.” Mysian tried not to feel empathy for the man as she bound his hands with a frayed rope. He seemed so… helpless and lost. He reminded her of a little boy; she was beset by motherly instincts to comfort the poor child. _‘A small child who has been severely beaten,’_ Mysian decided, glancing up at his bruised and swollen face. 

She sighed at the look of pure misery settled upon his marred features. “Do not worry, Borofara.” She gave his hand a sympathetic pat. “Mayhap you shall be granted a quick death. I am sure a hanging or beheading would not be above the mercy of the council.” 

Thorald gurgled in agreement. 

“Death?” Boromir jolted. “You are going to kill me?” The man of Gondor had been expecting to be jailed indefinitely, or a sentence of exile; perhaps indentured servitude at worst. What kind of bloodthirsty townsfolk had captured him? “You cannot kill me! I am the—“ He stopped abruptly. 

Mysian shot him another sympathetic glance. “—Leader of the Black Riders?” she finished, as though speaking to a child of four. 

Boromir closed his eyes and groaned. “Nay! How many times must I tell you—we are not the Black Riders.” 

“Weh?” Thorald gripped his hoe and let his eyes rove the room suspiciously. Apparently the man was able to pronounce some words. 

“Yes, _we_ ,” snapped Boromir, wondering if perhaps he should stop acting so complacent while Mysian tightened the knots on the rope. “Myself, Strider, Malbeorn—“ 

“—Elrond and Gil-Galad?” Mysian again finished. She gave the knot a final tug to make sure it was secure. 

“No, yes. I mean…” Boromir groaned a second time. He was going to hang. 

Much to his surprise, Mysian leaned forward and whispered into his ear. “Borofara,” said the rosy-cheeked maiden, “If you admit to your guilt, I am certain the council will grant you a quick and painless death.” 

“But I am not guilty!” Boromir roared, frustration lacing his voice. 

Mysian huffed and turned sharply on her heel. She tried to warn the foolish man, it would be his own fault if he was racked or burned. “Come. I shall not bind your feet, for I trust you are wise enough not to attempt an escape.” 

“Wait,” cried Boromir. He sensed his plan must be acted upon, or he would never again have the chance. Mysian turned and cocked her head. “I would speak with you.” 

The serving maiden and her toothless bodyguard met eyes and held silent council. “Please,” Boromir implored. “I beg of you.” 

Thorald shrugged and wiped drool from his chin with the back of his hand. “Very well,” stated Mysian. “Speak your piece.” 

Boromir glanced at Thorald. No, he would kiss his own horse ere he would plant one upon the old peasant. “I desire a word with the lady alone,” he said. 

Mysian again looked to Thorald. The wispy peasant shrugged, then brandished his gardening hoe at Boromir before turning and exiting the cell. “Iee wehl gid ooou eeble bwahck widah,” he called over his shoulder. 

Boromir blinked. “Pardon?” 

“He says he shall rip you apart limb-by-limb, beat you with his weapon until you are nothing more than a helpless mass of bruises, and then pour oil onto your skin and light you on fire if you even so much as look at me in a threatening manner.” 

“Ah, I see.” Boromir mentally repeated Thorald’s words, concluding Mysian must have added a few extra punishments, as the peasant’s threat came nowhere near the length of her translation. 

Mysian placed her hands upon her hips and bore her green eyes into the man of Gondor. “You may now speak, Borofara.” 

Boromir paused. Should he first kiss her or reveal his true identity? He pondered the thought for several moments. _‘The ordeal shall probably go over better if I first tell her who I am,’_ he decided. 

Mysian cleared her throat impatiently. “If you seek to stall for time, I assure you—“ 

“—Nay,” Boromir hurriedly interrupted. “I must… I must reveal something to you.” 

The honey-haired girl looked up at his bruised face, curiosity clearly exposed on her own. “Go on,” she said. 

Boromir furtively glanced about the cell, lest anyone overhear what he was about to impart. “I am not Borofara,” he stated, his voice at a low whisper. “My true identity is Boromir II, son of Denether II Twenty-sixth Steward of Gondor. I have embarked upon a scouting mission of the utmost secrecy and importance with the Dúnedain of the North, in the name of the free peoples of Middle-earth. We seek to discover the movements of Sauron and his allies.” He watched her face as she digested the information, but could not decipher her thoughts. 

After several moments, Mysian crooked a finger at him and beckoned him to lean closer. He acquiesced and placed his ear near her mouth. “And now I shall tell you a secret, Boromir son of Denethor,” she whispered. “I am not really a simple serving maiden.” 

Boromir jerked his head up and looked at her in astonishment. “You are not?” he exclaimed. By the Valar, this was turning out just as Denthor’s books were written! 

“Nay,” whispered the girl, grabbing his collar and pulling him back down. “I am…” she paused and looked around the room suspiciously. “I am… _QUEEN OF THE DWARVES_.” Boromir yelped in pain and jerked his ear away as her shrill voice stabbed through his eardrum. 

“How foolish a maiden do you take me for?” she spat vehemently. “Son of the Steward of Gondor?” The girl snorted. “I must congratulate you on a fine tale, for I had yet to have the ‘Son of Denethor’ grace my humble, insignificant table at The Singing Mûmak. The great Elendil and Fingolfin once paid visit to me, though they came in the form of a pot-bellied drunk and his three-legged dog.” 

Boromir tried in vain to interrupt her rant, but could only manage to stammer one-word responses. 

“May the Valar help us!” Mysian threw up her hands to the heavens in disgust. “You and your lackeys descend upon our gentle town as a plague of shadow, destroying half of our village, and YOU—“ she jabbed his chest with her finger, causing him to stumble backwards and wince, “—have the horrid nerve to claim you are Gondorian royalty?” 

Boromir decided that now was probably the best time to kiss Mysian, as he could think of no other way to silence her. 

“—not to mention you clearly do not resemble the line of Stewards, for it is well-known that…” Before Mysian could react, Boromir cupped his bound hands underneath her chin, brought her face forward, and placed a most generous kiss upon the fair maiden’s lips. 

It was a kiss to remember. 

Instead of melting into his arms and returning the kiss as Boromir supposed she would, Mysian went rigid as the iron bars within his cell and, wrenching herself away from his grasp, promptly slugged him. 

* * * 

Winter fell soft and heavy upon Mirkwood. The newly fallen snow, undisturbed as of yet by foot or paw print, glistened under the morning sun. Legolas inhaled, a shiver of pleasure running down his spine as his lungs took in the biting air. The clear and silvery laughter of his brothers Mallos and Calengaladh pealed throughout the serene forest. Grabbing his bow and hastily donning a cloak in afterthought, Legolas sprang to the branches in search of them. Lhûn, his eldest brother and Mirkwood’s Heir, was most likely engaged in some dry political session with Thranduil and the king’s advisors. Legolas felt a twinge of sympathy for his brother—what a shame to be locked inside on such a wondrous day! 

The young Elf darted through the trees, marveling at the snow’s ethereal purity. He passed through the ancient pine grove; the smell of their wet needles was so bitter it was almost sweet. Legolas smiled as he hopped down to the snowy earth. His brothers’ laughter drew closer, their joy was infectious and all his troubles seemed to fade away. Even his shoulder ceased to ache. 

Quite unexpectedly, the ground began to shake. Legolas froze in alarm as the stately trees began to tilt crazily. What was happening? 

“Legolas.” 

The ground’s quaking increased in severity. Legolas instinctively fell to his knees and attempted to curl into a ball. 

_“Legolas!”_

Was someone calling his name? 

“Legolas! Elbereth, do all the Silvan Elves sleep so deeply? Get up Legolas! I am tired and wish to sleep.” 

The youngest prince of Mirkwood blinked and roused himself. The sunlit snowscape of Mirkwood vanished, replaced by looming boulders, howling winds, and a vast and starless sky. “Arise, son of Thranduil.” Orimhedil’s shadowed face peered down at him. The Rivendell Elf gave him another vicious shake. 

“I am up,” snapped Legolas, annoyed by the rude awakening. “Kindly cease throwing me about.” He sat up with a scowl and instinctively reached for his bow. 

“If you had awoke when I first called out to you, I would not have resorted to such means,” replied Orimhedil crossly. “It is time for your watch.” 

Legolas lifted his face up to the empty sky, searching for some clue as to what time it was. However, the moon and stars appeared to have abandoned the treacherous night. Legolas did not blame them. “My watch has come already?” 

Orimhedil had already thrown himself to the ground. “Yes,” he answered tersely. Legolas recalled how little sleep the eastern scouting party had managed in the last few days. To say tempers were flaring was an understatement. “Wake Glorfindel when your watch is over.” 

Legolas sighed and wearily pulled himself to his feet. It was far colder than he remembered, and he was almost to the point of shivering. “The weather is uncommonly bitter,” he commented, rubbing his hands vigorously up and down his arms. Large snowflakes floated downward and settled at his feet. Legolas found himself thankful for the wall of boulders, which surrounded the company and effectively blocked the wind. 

Orimhedil rolled over onto his side and looked at the Mirkwood Elf curiously. “Yes, it is somewhat chilly, but no more than usual.” The tall Elf of Rivendell gave a sharp nod to the thick snowflakes. “If it continues to snow as thus, we shall be forced to move our camp. Rouse the others in a few hours’ time if the snow has not abated.” He shot Legolas a scrutinizing glance as the younger Elf shivered. “Are you well, son of Thranduil?” 

Legolas blinked in surprise and looked back to the Rivendell Elf. Slight concern reflected in Orimhedil’s eyes. Legolas flushed indignantly. “Of course I am well,” he responded, chagrinned. Orimhedil shrugged apologetically and rolled over. 

Legolas climbed atop an icy boulder and crouched wearily. Forsaken by even moon and stars, the barren land lie in agitated slumber. Inky sky melted into blackened mountains, which in return receded into even darker crags and crevices. A frigid wind whistled and ranted as it rushed by, the snowflakes it carried stinging Legolas’ cheeks. His cloak flapped maddeningly within its icy blasts. 

He strained his eyes and ears to the utmost, searching for any sign of foe in the bleak night. He sensed nothing. Legolas began to silently traverse the surrounding boulders. The company had found a giant ring of sorts, and slept encamped within its walls. 

_‘It is an ill sign when even the stars deny us the comfort of their light,’_ he thought with a sigh. _‘Starless and moonless, as was the eve of Gollum’s escape.’_ He shifted his quiver, as it was aggravating his shoulder. Eyes still roaming the blackened distance, Legolas prodded the shoulder and grimaced. It should have ceased to pain him by now. Granted, he did keep poking at it, but that was beside the point. 

He returned to the first boulder and sat down, cross-legged. Laying his bow across his lap, he gave his aching shoulder a languid roll. The wind continued to howl, and he shivered and drew up his cloak a bit tighter. _‘It shall be a long watch this night,’_ Legolas thought wearily. His entire arm felt stiff, and he was fatigued—unnaturally so. 

He shook his head as his eyes began to close of their own accord. He stiffened in alarm. This was not right. There was no reason his body should be so tired. He must wake Glorfindel; he must inform Glorfindel that he was ill. 

Legolas tried to push himself to his feet, but his efforts were in vain. His body simply would not comply. His arm ached mercilessly and every limb felt as though it were packed with lead. Even his eyelids were too heavy to keep open. 

Legolas struggled against the overpowering fatigue. _‘Stay awake, stay awake,’_ he desperately urged himself. _‘Glorfindel! You must... wake... Glorfindel.’_ Panic welled in him as his eyelids drooped and clamped shut. It seemed as though his entire body had shut down. Despite his best efforts, the archer soon drifted off into a still and blissful slumber. 

* * * 

The gleaming yellow eyes watched in barely contained excitement as the Elf’s head slowly sank to his chest. Slender hands relaxed and released their grip on the wooden bow, and then the lithe body crumpled and slid off the boulder. 

Snow flurried down from the dismal heavens at an alarming rate, making visibility nigh impossible. The wind swirled and tossed the flakes, packing them into every opening and crevice. Temperatures plummeted amidst the howling gusts, lending a thick crust of ice to the wet snow. Winter released its first storm, borne of long and pent-up waiting, upon the Misty Mountains. 

* * * 

Glorfindel’s senses were literally screaming. Still half-asleep, the Elf lord sprang to his feet and unsheathed his sword. Snow blotted out the morning sun, and he could see nothing save an impenetrable wall of swirling whiteness. The flakes had covered everyone and everything. He hoped the oddly shaped lumps surrounding him were the remaining company and not random boulders. 

The golden-haired Elf held up a hand to shield his eyes from the driving snow. His cry of dismay awoke the rest of the company. 

Clouds of snow flew up into the already-whitened air as Orimhedil, Barin, Gimli, and Glóin bolted upright. “Eh? What!” shouted Glóin in alarm. 

Gimli desperately tried to brush snow from his body before it melted on the uncovered parts of his skin and left him freezing. Nonetheless, he could feel the biting cold on his wrists and ankles; so frigid it burned. He could see nothing but white—it was everywhere. The Dwarf felt himself removed from reality. 

“We are trapped!” The melodious voice of Orimhedil contained a clearly defined note of panic. “We cannot get out! We are trapped within the rocks!” An odd scraping could be heard as the Elf unsuccessfully attempted to climb the boulders. They were too icy for even an Elf to discover footholds. 

Glorfindel threw himself against what had once been an opening between two boulders. Now, it had become a great wall of snow and ice. The Elf lord’s powerful frame hit the wall with a crunching thud, but the snow did not give. Glorfindel backed up further, hoping to succeed by gaining more speed, and tripped over a snow-covered boulder. 

Rolling over, the golden-haired Elf cursed as something jabbed him sharply in the ribs. He angrily sought out the object, intending to throw it out of the way. His hand unexpectedly met the polished wood of Legolas’s bow. 

Scrambling on all fours, the Elf began digging at the “boulder” he had tripped over. He was soon rewarded with the still form of Legolas. The young Elf remained limp and placid, despite Glorfindel’s incessant shaking. What concerned the captain of Imladris the most, however, was that Legolas’s eyes remained tightly shut. He put his mouth next to the young Elf’s ear and yelled loudly. 

_“Legolas!”_

He received no response. 

A high-pitched, keening howl floated eerily on the blustering wind. The entire company froze. Several more howls, some low and guttural, others high and whining, were quick to follow. 

Gimli, axe gripped tightly between his hands, whirled around and nearly decapitated Orimhedil as they accidentally backed into one another. “What, in the name of Mahal, is that?” the Dwarf fairly shouted, his nerves on edge. 

“Wargs,” hissed Orimhedil, his fair face pinched and grim as he flexed his fingers over his sword handle. 

“Wargs?” Gimli’s mind brought forth a vague and shadowy image. He had never actually had the pleasure of meeting one of the beasts first-hand. “Where are they?” he demanded, peering furtively into the whirling snow. “I can see nothing!” 

The howls rang out again amidst the screaming wind. Glorfindel suddenly appeared from the swirling whiteness, carrying the still form of Legolas in his arms. He deposited the unmoving Elf onto the snow and called for the others to draw near. Gimli cast a disgusted look at the son of Thranduil. What had the troublesome Elf gotten himself into now? 

“Is he dead?” 

Gimli immediately wished he had not bothered to ask. Glorfindel somehow managed to simultaneously glare at him and the shapeless howling beasts surrounding them. “Nay,” responded the Elf lord tightly, his sword aloft and ready to strike, “but I cannot wake him.” 

The deadly chorus of howls stopped as suddenly as they began. The eastern scouting party stood tense and on edge, surrounding the body of their unconscious comrade. Gimli could hear nothing save the wind, his pounding heart, and the gasping breaths of his companions. The air was thinner and harder to come by at this altitude. He looked worriedly to his father. Glóin’s powerful chest heaved in and out, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes and he brandished his axe with all the flare of the deadliest Dwarven warriors. 

A sharp bark echoed across the mountainside, and suddenly the howls resumed, coupled by the scrabbling of claws upon icy rocks. “They attack!” cried Orimhedil. 

Glorfindel planted his feet firmly upon the snow. “Hold fast,” he ordered. Gimli marveled at the Elf’s level of calmness. 

Shrieking dark shapes came barreling out of the snow, their size and speed catching even Glorfindel off-guard. Gimli whirled and hacked blindly at anything that moved. He fervently hoped his blade met only Wargs, for in the whiteout it was impossible to distinguish friend from foe. His world became a mass of teeth, fangs, and thickly furred bodies amidst endless snowflakes. He could not make out the others in the strange white nightmare, but could hear their singing blades and arrows along with the occasional Dwarven or Elvish cry. 

“AAARRGHHHH!” Gimli roared as he embedded his axe into the Warg’s leaping body. Much to his dismay, the blade became lodged in the beast’s ribcage. He tugged with all his might, frantically trying to remove the blade before the next Warg was upon him. A ripping snarl warned him that his attacker sprang from the right. His axe would not budge. Mustering the last of his strength into a great jerk, Gimli somehow managed to dislodge the blade just as the Warg pounced. 

Unfortunately, the Dwarf was not fast enough. He felt his axe wretched from his hands as the dark beast slammed into him. Its teeth sank into the mail on his chest as they fell heavily into the snow. The dark beast snarled and snapped its head back and forth in attempt to tear off the metal protecting the Dwarf’s chest. Gimli cried out and began pummeling the Warg with his fists, his axe out of reach and half-buried somewhere in the surrounding snow. The Warg shrieked in pain as Gimli’s thick fist came into contact with its sensitive nose. The Dwarf successfully managed to shove the beast off of him and rolled into the snow, thankful the blizzard would conceal him as it had the Wargs. 

He hastily scrambled to his feet, poised and ready for the next attacker to jump out at him from the swirling snow. _‘I must find a weapon!’_ he thought urgently. His eyes scanned the snow-laden ground. He needed a rock, or perhaps a sharp icicle. Anything would do at the moment. And then he saw the Elf. The Elf, who was partially buried in the snow, and appeared to be...sleeping. 

Gimli growled and dropped down onto his knees next to the Elf. All around him, amidst the whirling snow, Wargs howled in tune to the wind and Elves and Dwarves cried in ancient battle tongues. And still the Elf—Legolas—slept. 

The Elf had a bow and arrows. 

The hairs on the back of Gimli’s neck stood on end, as they always did when his gut was trying to warn him. The Warg whose nose he had injured released a deadly wail from somewhere close by. Gimli growled and acted upon the first impulse that sprang to mind. He lifted his hand, and then swung it across the Elf’s face as hard as he could. “Wake up! Wake up you stupid, arrogant Elf!” he hissed. The Elf moaned and his eyelids fluttered. Gimli gave him another slap for good measure. This time, the Elf’s eyes flew open, though he appeared greatly disoriented. Gimli grabbed a handful of snow threw it in Legolas’s face. “Get up! We are going to be eaten alive!” 

* * * 

Legolas was yanked back to the waking world by a stinging slap, which nearly took off his head. He groaned and tried to open his eyes. 

“Wake up! Wake up you stupid, arrogant Elf!” The iron fist again assaulted his face. 

He was dreadfully cold and his shoulder was throbbing. He had never been ill before, for such afflictions did not plague the Elder, but he certainly felt as though he were at the moment. 

“Get up! We are going to be eaten alive!” A handful of wet snow landed on his face. Legolas jerked his body in response. The world made no sense: only a cold and sterile whiteness greeted his eyes. Strange howls and cries mingled in the wind. They were vaguely familiar—disturbingly so. He closed his eyes and wished to fall back to sleep. 

_“Fine.”_ Someone kicked him. “You can lay here and die for all I care. We would be better off without you.” He was being rolled over onto his stomach. Legolas tried to push himself over, but his body refused to obey. He still felt as though he were filled with lead. His tormentor finally gave up and left him alone. 

A bone-chilling howl caused his eyes to snap open. He wearily lifted his leaden head, only to discover, to his utter horror, Gimli the Dwarf attempting to shoot an enraged Warg by means of bow and arrow. 

HIS bow and arrow. 


	22. Fatherly Love and the Frodohobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

__**A/N:**  
We have a few new characters in this chapter (Allin’s family!), and translations are at the bottom of the page. Tip your hat to arabiasil and her wonderful horse stories in regards to the plight of Shadowfax. :) Happy Reading!

**CHARACTER LIST** : 

Fanlin- Male Elf of Imladris. Joined the Eastern Scouting Party, injured in the first battle. 

Rithol- Female Elf of Imladris. Joined Eastern Scouting Party, escorting Fanlin back home. 

Allin- The 8 year old shepherd boy Frodo, Pippin, and Sam meet in the highlands. 

Laure- Allin’s 6 year old sister. 

Atan Lerooj (“Atan the Red”)- Allin’s father, one of three chieftains of Pahtoh. 

Vanrie- Allin’s mother. 

Nwahr- the sheepdog. 

******* 

Autumn had reached its peak in Rivendell, and the realm was abloom with fiery reds, gilded yellows, and eye-watering oranges. The grass, nurtured by delicate fall rains, remained emerald as ever; the sky was an endless blue of possibilities. 

Elrond, his dark-haired figure melding into the scenery as only Elves do, moved serenely down to the pastures, several apples in hand. His journey came to an abrupt halt when he caught sight of his daughter flitting beneath the trees, dancing and singing as though she were Autumn herself. 

He watched her dark hair swirl and bounce about her as the breeze teased it, noticing how her slender arms entwined and swayed like sapling branches. Her lithe figure moved gracefully as she twirled on bare feet; her grey eyes shown with a light borrowed from the stars. Were the sun a bit dimmer, Elrond would have sworn he was witnessing some long-forgotten vision of Lúthien waltzing beneath the shady eaves. 

Sensing her father’s presence, Arwen lifted her skirts and skipped gracefully to his side. “You go to feed the horses,” she said as her twinkling grey eyes fell upon the apples in his hand. “You spoil them, Father.” 

Elrond smiled at his daughter. “Nay, it is your brother Elladan who is in the habit of spoiling them. I merely sweeten them.” 

“You shall fatten them if you are not careful.” Arwen stole one of the apples from his hand and bit into it. 

“A single apple now and then does no harm unto our swift friends.” 

The two Elves walked in comfortable silence for a time, save the loud crunches of Arwen’s swiped apple as she bit into it. Elrond soon found himself lost in thoughts, which lately had begun to flow a more bittersweet course. 

Arwen held the apple-core by the stem and watched, almost curiously, as its white flesh began to turn a bruised brown in the crisp air. She smiled and held the core up to her father. “A bit of magic from the wind.” 

The Elven lord of Imladris frowned at the withering core, and Arwen caught the heavy look of weariness in his eyes that seemed to grow more prominent as the weeks went by. Before their departure, Elladan and Elrohir had voiced quiet concern over their father’s increased moodiness. The twins had attributed it to the change in season, whereas Arwen suggested her brothers had finally succeeded, after several centuries, in driving their father mad. All three knew the true cause of Elrond’s despondence, but they seemed to reach an unspoken understanding that naught be spoken of it. 

“Days such as this do not grace us with their presence as often as I wish,” said Arwen, hoping to redirect her father’s melancholy. She gathered several brilliantly colored leaves and began fashioning them into a crown. 

“Alas, you speak truth.” Elrond sighed wearily and looked to the trees. “Autumn has fallen sooner this year than years past, and winter shall be upon us within the blink of an eye. Time weighs heavily upon the land and burdens us all.” 

Arwen’s delicate fingers paused their weaving and she lifted her head. “You burden yourself in thinking such thoughts.” 

“Do I?” The Elf lord’s response was sharper than was his wont, and he immediately regretted his words as he noticed Arwen flinch. “Forgive me daughter. I have not been myself as of late and it is in poor taste to lash out at those around me.” 

“Even if they may be the cause of such feelings?” Arwen lowered her head and seemingly bent her full concentration on the leaf crown. 

Elrond did not speak for several moments. He watched Arwen’s slender fingers as they skillfully wove the leaf stems, not missing their barely perceptible trembles. _‘So much like her mother,’_ he thought. _‘Celebrían’s hands were just as delicate.’_ He blinked rapidly and cleared his throat. “Child, what mean you by those words?” 

Arwen’s fingers began to move faster. _Over, under, pull, twist, straighten._ “I know you are not... _pleased_...with my decision.” Her voice was barely audible above the rustling branches of the trees. “I hope you will one day be able to forgive me. Please do not blame Estel, he—“ 

“Daughter,” interrupted Elrond, his voice unnaturally hoarse but firm, “Many a time have we discussed this. I never have, and I never will blame you or Estel for the paths you have chosen to walk.” He saw Arwen’s tensed shoulders drop in slight relief. “Long have I known where your heart would ultimately rest, my child— before even you were aware of its desires.” 

He cupped his daughter’s face in his hands and pressed a loving kiss to her forehead. “I may wish to keep you for my own selfish reasons,” he looked straight into her suspiciously misty eyes, “but your happiness is what matters most to me. For if you are happy, I am happy. I would give up everything for the sake of my children’s happiness.” He smiled and gave one of her long braids an affectionate tug. “After all,” his grey eyes twinkled mischievously, “I always favored you most amongst my daughters.” 

Arwen released a peal of silvery laughter and placed the crown of leaves upon his head. “And I always favored you most, My Lord, amongst my fathers.” 

Elrond dipped in an elegant bow and offered his arm to Arwen. “Then by all means, my fair Evenstar and best-loved daughter, shall we continue our walk to the pastures? I suddenly feel most festive with this wreath upon my head.” The Elf lord tossed his head and struck a gallant pose. 

A serene and somewhat smug grin broke across the face of the beautiful maiden. “Indeed Father. I have not seen you adorn yourself so... ‘festively’... since our last visit to Mirkwood.” The grin broadened. “As I recall, you and King Thranduil—“ 

Elrond shot his daughter a severe look, though his cheeks and the tips of his ears blushed a noticeable crimson. He had last visited Mirkwood to celebrate Sauron’s release of Dol Guldur.* Thranduil had been a most liberal host, diving straight into Oropher’s vintage Dorwinian casks. Wine had flowed that night and the following three evenings with more force than the mighty Anduin. For his part, Elrond remembered very little of the celebration, and the brief flashes he did recall he professed to have no knowledge of. 

He grimaced as a particularly distorted image of he and Thranduil attempting to shove a very inebriated Gandalf into the Forest River suddenly surfaced forth. In a bout of drunken reasoning, the two Elf lords decided they needed the Istari’s staff (Valar knew for what purpose) and... Elrond shook his head to dispel the image. _‘Nay,’_ he firmly reassured himself, _‘I do not remember such an incident.’_

Arwen stifled a laugh at the perturbed look clouding her father’s face. “Legolas was born a short while after that, as I remember,” she stated lightly, recalling how a similar look would grace the young prince’s face should anyone mention the words “victory celebration” and “unexpected gift” in the same sentence. 

“Did not his brothers give him the nickname of—“ Elrond suddenly raised a hand and turned intently to the trees, effectively hushing his daughter. Arwen strained her ears and watched her father’s clear bright eyes as they darted to and fro, piercing the forest eaves. 

“Horses,” murmured Elrond. His brow constricted as he narrowed his sharp eyes. “Two Elvish mounts.” 

Arwen frowned. “None of the parties are due to return as of yet. Mayhap they are messengers sent by either Mithlond or Mirkwood?” 

Elrond shook his head. “Nay, Galdor has yet to reach Círdan’s Haven, for he left but two weeks ago. These riders come from the East, but were they of Thranduil’s kin they would have encountered the eastern scouting party..." 

“If they ride from the East they will not be of the Golden Wood,” Arwen concluded, furrowing her brow in the same manner as her father’s. “I suspect we shall soon find from whence they hail, for they are headed this way.” 

The sound of pounding hooves drew near, sending a wave of tense urgency rolling throughout the sheltered forest. As Elrond predicted, two Elvish mounts dashed out from beneath the trees. Necks arched proudly, their long limbs covered ground in a flowing gallop more akin to flight. Mane, tail, and Elvish hair streamed behind the sun-dappled bodies in ribbons as the horses charged down the gentle pasture slope. 

Both father and daughter stiffened in alarm; each horse bore a rider of the Elven race, but one of the riders lay slumped forward and was clearly impaired. 

“My lord! My lord Elrond!” Rithol’s panicked voice rang clear across the pasture. The two parties met at the bottom of the field, and the blowing steeds had barely halted before the Elves began to exchange words. 

“Lord Elrond,” panted Rithol, hastily brushing unruly strands of dark hair from her face, “we were waylaid on the mountain trail by an Orkish band and Fanlin took hurt. Glorfindel bade us return to the Homely House and warn you that that fell beasts wander unhindered across the western face of the mountains.” 

A small gasp of alarm escaped the lips of Arwen. “The western face of the mountains,” she repeated, reflexively looking to the shrouded slopes in the distance. “Then the darkness draws near our borders, as well.” 

Rithol shuddered and nodded vigorously. She breathlessly continued to relate the tale while Elrond gently lifted Fanlin from the back of his steed. The horse stomped her foot and snorted in concern, seeking reassurance her rider was in good hands. Arwen stroked the winded beast and spoke soothingly into her ear. The mare quieted immediately. 

“How long has he been as such?” Elrond asked as he carefully lifted the back of Fanlin’s tunic. He frowned when he noticed a slight bloodstain on the otherwise spotless white bandage. 

Rithol slid off the back of her steed and wearily draped an arm over the stallion’s withers. “Since last evening. He showed no signs of ill side-effects from the wound, save what is to be expected, and then he simply fell asleep.” The pretty Elf’s brow wrinkled in concern. “I have been unable to wake him!” 

Elrond gently pulled aside the bandage covering the injured Elf’s back and examined the wound with an expertise gained from long years’ experience. He elicited a small grunt at the stitch-work holding the wound together— Glorfindel’s work, no doubt. _‘For all his experience on the battlefield,’_ thought the chagrinned Elf lord, noticing the varied sizes of loops and knots, _‘one would think it possible for Glorfindel to pull a decent stitch.’_

“See how it has turned a deep purple around the edges of the stitching, more so than is normal?” Arwen knelt down next to her father to closer view the wound and nodded. “The blade was undoubtedly poisoned,” Elrond continued, “though judging by the appearance of the injury and the time it took for the toxins to affect him, I do not believe it will be too detrimental. From what you have told me, Rithol,” the Elf lord glanced at the dark-haired maiden, “I suspect it is some mixture of the Faelerons* plant.” 

Rithol breathed a sigh of relief and hugged her tired mount, pressing her forehead against his sleek neck. “Blessed Elbereth,” she murmured, “I feared Fanlin would never again open his eyes to the day.” 

Elrond scooped Fanlin into his arms, taking care not to jostle the unconscious Elf. “It is but a minor poison, Rithol,” he gently assured the female warrior. “In small amounts it may render one sluggish; larger doses render a victim unconscious.” 

Rithol chewed on her lip thoughtfully. “An easy victory would we have been, were the entire company poisoned. Even had we escaped the first attack, a second or third party of the fell beasts might have overwhelmed us.” 

Elrond nodded gravely and murmured in agreement. “It is well no other members of the party suffered injury.” 

* * * 

Shadowfax galloped proudly over the treacherous mountain terrain, arching his neck and watching as his wet hooves glinted silver in the muted sunlight. The thick fog from whence the Misty Mountains earned their namesake had yet to lift, and the land was transformed into a surreal golden haze. The golden shrouds clung and swirled about the stallion’s silver coat, reminding him of how the very first King of the Mearas must have appeared as he flew through the heavens. 

Middle-earth was graced by the presence of Shadowfax, and the stallion knew this. Even the Valar would shed tears of delight if they could see him now: charging bravely into unknown peril, with no thought for his own safety. He was the savior of Middle-earth, a shining beacon of light and goodness. Even the clouds parted and bowed before him as he galloped onward. 

Why had Gandalf chosen the mare? 

An Elvish mare! Shadowfax snorted contemptuously. Elvish horses were sneaky and addle-brained. The mares were the worst, for they refused to consider any stallion raised by those other than the Elder. They simply ignored all other suitors— not that Shadowfax had ever tried to catch the attentions of an Elvish mare... Never whole-heartedly attempted, anyways. They were far below his notice. 

Shadowfax laid back his ears and curled his lip in disdain. He also hated the way Elvish horses didn’t leave proper tracks. Their gait was too similar to that of the Elves, and as far as Shadowfax was concerned, any horse who imitated the gait of a two-legged creature was a sad beast indeed. 

Tracks... Tracks... Shadowfax’s long strides faltered to a gentle lope. Where were that confounded mare’s prints? He halted and flared his nostrils. He could either go to the left, to the right, or continue galloping straight ahead. The great stallion swung his head around and surveyed his options. To the left there was golden mist. To the right, there was golden mist. And straight ahead, there was... golden mist. Shadowfax took one last look, just to be certain. Yes, the golden mist was everywhere. 

He picked up one foot and arched his neck and tail, striking up what he believed to be a gallant pose of confusion. In the end, the silver King of the Mearas decided to veer right: he still looked just as beautiful in the golden mist—as it was everywhere—and going right allowed him to gallop downhill, which would in turn show off his highly-muscled haunches. 

* * * 

“Is it safe to come out now, Allin?” Frodo poked his head out from underneath the creaky bed and looked to the boy expectantly. 

“I do not see the bird,” replied the boy, craning his neck while he surveyed the evening sky from the window, “but I think you should stay where you are. Just in case it comes back.” 

“I would like to see him stuffed under this bed,” grumbled Pippin. “Then you watch how quickly it would be safe to come out.” 

Allin’s house was fashioned in the manner of all the village houses: a sturdy structure of piled limestone rock covered by a thatched roof. The front of the house served as the main room, containing a large fireplace to the left and a beaten wooden table with two benches at the right. Various iron cookware lined the fireplace, and the eastward window above the table and benches contained several potted herbs and three cooling meat pies. A large tin bathing tub sat discreetly in the corner, next to a smaller wooden bucket. Aside from a woven grass mat on the hard-packed floor, the room was relatively bare. The back of the house, though it had been sectioned off into two separate sleeping compartments, was just as scarce; neither containing an abundance of furnishings. Thus, it had only made sense that the safest place for the hobbits to hide was under a bed. 

“Stop breathing on me, Sam!” Sounds of a light scuffle arose, and Frodo attempted to twist his body around to better view what sort of fight Pippin and Sam were engaged in. He had been last to dive under the bed, and had not ended up compacted against the wall and each other, as had Sam and Pippin. 

“Ouch, those were my ribs!” 

“Then stop breathing on me!” 

“I’m not doing it on purpose. Why don’t you stop making your elbows so pointy?” 

This was followed by a snort, and Frodo thought he saw a glint of light reflecting in either Pippin or Sam’s eyes. Whose, he could not be certain. He wormed his way back to facing Allin, and was perturbed to find the boy gone missing. 

“Allin?” 

There was no response. 

Someone grabbed his sleeve, accidentally pinching his arm in the process, and began tugging at him. “Frodo, mister Frodo!” 

“What?” he snapped crossly, jerking his arm away. 

“I think I’m stuck.” 

Biting back the word “good,” which seemed to immediately find its way to the tip of his tongue, Frodo gritted his teeth in frustration. “Sam, I am sure you are not stuck.” 

“No, mister Frodo, I’m fairly certain—“ 

“If he’s stuck I won’t be able to get out either,” moaned Pippin. 

Frodo again poked his head out from underneath the bed. “Allin? Allin!” Growing worried, he risked pulling himself out a little further. 

“Frodo, where are you going? Mister Frodo? Don’t leave me, I’m stuck!” Sam began pulling at his legs. 

“He’s breathing on me again Frodo! Stop it Sam. Frodo, kindly tell him to stop!” 

“I can’t get out! Help oh help! What would the Gaffer say if he saw me now? He would tell me it serves me right, he would. He would say _‘Samwise Gamgee, this is what happens when you try to hide under beds, because beds were made to sleep on and not hide under.’_ ” 

“Sam, will you please stop pulling on my leg? Allin? _Allin!”_

“Stop breathing on me!” 

“Why don’t you both stop yelling at me? I’m the one who’s stuck!” 

Deciding enough was enough, Frodo crawled out from underneath the bed and went to look for Allin himself. He nearly ran into the boy as they both simultaneously stepped into the doorframe. 

“Mon Valo,” cried Allin, jerking back in surprise and nearly dropping the meat pie he held in his hands. He juggled the pie for a few precarious moments. “Frodo, why have you left the bed? It is not safe for you to walk about.” 

Frodo glanced at the bed and grimaced at the squabbling voices originating from underneath it. He sighed and looked back to the ginger-haired boy. “I grew worried when I called and you didn’t respond, Allin.” 

The gangly boy wrinkled his nose and grinned apologetically, not sure of whether to be offended Frodo thought him unable to care for himself, or pleased by the hobbit’s concern over his welfare. “I have brought you a meat pie, Frodo Hobbit.” He proudly held forth the pie. “Mah Mehr made it herself. She is known as the best cook in our village.” 

Frodo smiled and bowed slightly, touched by the boy’s thoughtfulness. “Thank you, Allin. We hobbits are never ones to pass up a meal, and I am sure Sam and Pippin will be just as pleased. You know, they say thoughtful persons like yourself often make the greatest leaders.” 

The ginger-haired boy’s face broke out into a snaggle-toothed grin. “I shall be a great leader one day,” he fiercely declared, puffing out his chest. 

Frodo, Pippin, and Sam (who had immediately become un-stuck at the mention of food), sat down to their second large meal of the day. Allin again watched in admiration as they consumed the entire pie, which was quite a feat, as it was large enough to satiate four fully-grown men. When the three had finished their meal, the boy bid them to hide under the bed again. 

Sam eyed the dark space warily. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, seeing as how I got stuck last time when my stomach wasn’t even full.” 

“Oh you were not stuck,” snapped Pippin. 

“Allin,” asked Frodo, “why do we need to hide underneath the bed again?” 

The boy averted his eyes and mumbled to his feet, unconsciously tugging at his hair. 

“Pardon me?” Pippin asked curiously. 

All three hobbits turned to regard the boy expectantly. Allin flushed and tugged at the nape of his sweater. “Ah, so l’wazoh will not get you..." 

Frodo raised an eyebrow, suddenly realizing why the boy wished for them to continue hiding. “Allin, will your parents allow us to stay in your house? You were planning to tell them of us, weren’t you?” 

The boy picked at a piece of pie crust left in the pan and chewed on it half-heartedly. “Mon Pehr still works in the hills and mah Mehr and Laure help the other women salt meat for winter.” 

“Allin,” said Frodo, “we do not wish to intrude upon your family.” Placing both hands on his hips, he gave the boy a stern look, imitating Farmer Maggot’s scowl to the best of his abilities. It seemed to have the intended effect, as the boy’s face fell and he grew rather somber. Frodo ignored Pippin’s stifled snicker. The younger hobbit had immediately recognized whom the furrowed brow, glowering eyes, and puckered mouth belonged to. 

Allin heaved a great sigh. “I shall tell them as soon as they arrive home. But I still think you should—“ The telltale sound of a creaky wooden door being pushed open caused all four companions to freeze. Allin sprang to his feet and desperately attempted to usher the three hobbits underneath the bed. 

However, he was not fast enough. The door had already been opened and none of the hobbits were in any great hurry to return to their cramped hideaway. 

“Allin!” shrieked a voice belonging to a young girl, “Kehs-keh-say?”* 

Allin roughly nudged Sam’s arm under the bed with his foot. “Be careful!” cried the gardener. “There’s no use kicking me.” 

Frodo laid his head flat against the floor and tried to catch a glimpse of their newest arrival. A young girl, no older than six, stood glaring at Allin suspiciously from the doorway. Her cheeks were a rosy red, courtesy of the wind, and her wind-swept ginger hair rested haphazardly about her shoulders. She, too, was dressed in heavy woolen clothing, from her button-up coat down to her thick stockings. 

The girl child cocked her head to one side and stuck her nose up into the air, hands still rested on her hips. “ _Kehs-keh-say_ , _Allin?”_ She stressed the words, almost menacingly, and pointed an accusing finger towards the bed. 

Allin glowered. “Lahs tu, Laure.”* 

Pippin wriggled next to Frodo. “What’s going on?” he whispered. 

“I am fairly certain that is his sister Laure,” Frodo whispered back. “But other than that, I’m as lost as you.” 

Pippin nodded and wormed his way back to Sam. “Allin is talking to his sister Laure.” 

The girl child’s eyes grew wide as she heard her name whispered from underneath the bed. She gasped and took a step backwards. 

“Laure,” snapped Allin, “Neh racohnt pah Maman ou Papa, ou ahlor meh crehtur— eel voolahnt mahnjay tu!” * 

Allin’s younger sister whimpered and shrank against the doorway. Frodo watched as the boy bent his hands to resemble claws, gnashed his teeth, and stalked towards the girl menacingly. _‘I wonder what he has told her,’_ Frodo wondered, finding himself very disturbed. The girl Laure squeaked and retreated back into the main room. Allin was quick to follow, hunching his body and making odd clawing-motions, growling all the while. 

The sleek sheepdog Nwahr, thinking some new game afoot, leapt up from his place by the fire and began frisking about the two siblings, wagging his tail and barking excitedly. This, in turn, excited Allin, who increased the ferocity of his growls until they took on a distinctly wolf-like bellow. Laure threw herself into the oversized bathing tin and screamed for her mother in octaves only attainable by the very young. 

The front door opened abruptly, sending a blast of cold air sweeping through the cozy home. The flames in the fireplace shivered and leapt at the sudden intrusion, and several iron ladles and spoons clinked together pleasantly. All activity ceased immediately, save the tearful, albeit joyful, cry of Laure from inside the metal tub. 

“Papa!” 

Frodo’s heart suddenly resided in his throat and he had the overwhelming urge to stay hidden underneath the bed. Permanently. Judging by the gasps elicited from Sam and Pippin, they were of the same mindset. 

Frodo could not recall having ever seen such an imposing man. Allin’s father resembled an overgrown Dwarf in compactness, from his broad shoulders and barreled chest to his full, braided beard. Though his legs were much longer than those of a Dwarf, he nonetheless looked as though he had been chiseled from solid rock. His hair was the same gingery red as that of his children, and his eyes were a shocking pale blue. However, the most imposing aspect of the man was not the shape of his body, but rather the tattoos that adorned it. 

Blue woad tattoos of fantastic design covered nearly every inch of visible skin. They swirled around his eyes and across his brow; wound up his arm from his fingertips and palms. There were woven knots, birds, deer, and creatures the hobbits had never even seen before. Frodo was riveted and terrified at the same time. 

Sam gurgled incoherently before finally rediscovering his ability to speak. “He’s like a walking picture!” 

A stout woman bearing a basket laden with wool came bustling in behind the man. Her hair was not as fiery as the rest of the family, and her dancing eyes were more of a watery blue. A healthy smattering of freckles dashed across her face, which was tattooed in a manner similar to her husband’s though not to the same extent. She seemed a cheery and robust woman; Frodo imagined she laughed often and heartily. 

The large man swept his daughter into his arms and proceeded to reprimand Allin for his antics. His deep, booming voice was occasionally interrupted by added words or phrases from his wife, who was setting the dinner table and out of the hobbits’ line of view. “I hope she doesn’t notice the missing pie,” whispered Pippin as they watched Allin shuffle and squirm under his parents’ lecturing voices. 

Sam noticed the girl child Laure had wrapped her arms around her father’s massive neck and was blatantly smirking at her brother. He felt a pang of sympathy for the boy as Laure grinned devilishly and stuck out her tongue. 

* * * 

Atan Lehrooj, or Atan the Red as he was called, had descended from the great warrior tribesmen of Pahtoh. His forefathers had fought in the Last Alliance, bringing much honor and pride to his family name. He was one of three chieftains of the village, and a force in his own right. He proudly bore the great deeds of his ancestors and those by his own hand on the tattoos decorating his body. Few dared cross him, and those who did almost always regretted it. 

“Allin,” he boomed, his voice reverberating off the limestone walls, “how many times must I tell you to leave your sister alone?” 

“Listen to your father, boy.” Vanrie, his wife and perhaps the only person who could cross the man, called from across the room. 

Atan watched his son squirm uncomfortably. Laure wrapped her tiny arms around his neck and sniffled loudly. “He said his creatures under the bed would eat me,” the pixie-esque child complained woefully. 

Atan the Red shook his head and sighed. “Allin, again, how many times must I tell you not to bring animals you find on the mountainside into this house?” 

An angry exclamation came from the opposite side of the room. Vanrie stood wiping her hands with the apron she had donned. “Allin, have you been eating my pies again? I specifically told you not to touch them!” 

Allin flushed and tugged at his hair. “And what have you brought home this time?” Vanrie continued. “A snake? A dead bird? I certainly hope it isn’t another goat.” 

Allin gulped and tried to avoid both his father and mother’s eyes. Laure was grinning at him in smug delight. A month ago he had brought home a stray goat, which had eaten half the bed sheets and the woven floor mat, gnawed on the table, and kicked in Vanrie’s prized iron kettle. 

“He brought home little creatures from the mountains with big hairy feet,” Laure declared gleefully as she pointed to their bedroom. Allin groaned. 

“Frodo,” Sam whispered in the darkness. “The little girl is pointing at us.” 

Atan the Red gently placed his daughter back on the floor and reached for the family sword, which rested above the doorway, as this was believed to ward off any evil spirits or sickness. “Come now, Laure. I am sure these ‘hairy mountain creatures’ will not last long against my sword.” 

Vanrie reached down to give the dog Nwahr a friendly pat and chuckled. It never failed to charm her the way her husband treated the fears of her children so seriously and then went about banishing them as though battling an enemy. 

The huge man tossed the blade over his shoulder and jauntily strode towards the bedroom. “Run, Frodo Hobbit!” Allin cried out in Westron and dashed for the front door, flinging it wide open. 

Running was the last thing on Frodo’s mind as he and the two other hobbits stared in utter horror at the towering figure blocking the doorway. 

Atan the Red got down onto both knees, then turned to Laure and gave the child a cheeky wink. He was not sure what a Frodohobbit was, but he intended to get it out of his house nonetheless. _‘Probably a field mouse,’_ he thought, remembering Laure’s irrational fear of the small furry animals. Chuckling, he lowered his face to the floor. 

Three pairs of very non-field mouse eyes stared back. 

******* 

**Translations** : 

_“Kehs-keh-say?”: ‘Ques-ce c’est?’_ \-- What is this? 

_“Lahs tu, Laure.” : ‘Laisse tu, Laure.’_ \-- Leave [you], Laure. 

_“Laure, neh racohnt pah Maman ou Papa, ou ahlor meh crehtur— eel voolwah mahnjay tu!” : ‘Laure, ne raconte pas Maman ou Papa, ou alors mes creatures— ils veulent manger tu!’_ \-- Laure, do not tell Mama or Papa, or else my creatures— they will eat you! 

*** 

*Sauron’s release of Dol Guldur: _“2063 Third Age: Gandalf goes to Dol Guldur. Sauron retreats and hides in the East. The Watchful Peace begins. The Nazgûl remain quiet in Minas Morgul.” --_ ‘The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King’; Appendix B: “The Tale of Years (Chronology of the Westlands),” “The Third Age.” 

*Faelerons plant: _Asclepias faeleronis._ Member of the milkweed genus. A perennial species found most commonly in the rocky, arid soil of shallow caves. Leaves arranged in whorled configuration and approximately 3-4 cm in length. Pale green in appearance and somewhat velvety to the touch. Known to produce a milky toxin containing potent sleep-inducing chemicals. May cause tongue to itch if eaten. Also see: “Snore Leaf.” 

\---  Bryn’s Guide of Imaginary Middle-earth Species, Chapter 7: “Don’t Know Elvish? Just Spell It Backwards.” Pg. 46. 


	23. In Reverence of the Mountain Elves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

**A/N** :  
 _There is a very, very minor reference to Oropher and the Last Alliance towards the end of this chapter. I’m sure most of you know who he is and what happened to him, so I’ll leave it at that._

_Thanks to all the people who are helping me brush up on my French (it’s such a fun language)._

**CHARACTER LIST**

Allin- the 8 year old boy the hobbits meet on the highlands 

Nwahr- Allin’s dog 

Atan the Red- Allin’s father. One of three chieftains in the village of Pahtoh. 

Vanrie- Allin’s mother. 

Laure- Allin’s younger sister. 

Frodo, Sam, and Pippin 

Erestor- chief counselor in Elrond’s household 

Elrond 

Merry 

******* 

Atan the Red slowly straightened and sat with his knees folded underneath him. He stared unseeing at his reflection in the blade of his sword for several moments, then lowered back down to the floor. A hushed silence fell over the tiny house, save for the pop and crackle emanating from the fireplace. 

“Atan,” Vanrie called from the doorway, her voice sounding unnaturally sharp in the stillness. “What is it? What sort of animal has he brought home this time?” Laure gripped the woman’s skirts and giggled nervously while whispering about hairy mountain creatures. Vanrie promptly hushed the child. 

The large man sat up once again and slowly rotated his head to face Allin. The ginger-haired boy flushed darker than his hair and sheepishly closed the front door. He attempted to offer his father a grin, but failed miserably as an extremely lopsided grimace was all his mouth would allow. 

Atan took a deep breath and pointed his sword at the bed. Pippin squeaked fearfully at the sight of the shining broadsword. 

“What are those?” Atan demanded. Though spoken softly, the words carried a menacing sting. Allin’s face drained of all color as he stammered a response. 

“You found them on the mountainside, and you let them into this house.” Atan’s reply was not a question, and Allin nodded miserably. The barrel-chested man found it necessary to repeat the statement, albeit with more force. The iron cookware above the fireplace clinked nervously. _“You found them on the mountainside, and you let them into this house!”_

Frodo, Pippin, and Sam could not understand a word of the conversation, which perhaps made it all the more terrifying. The tattooed man’s voice was akin to shoving thunder in a small room and watching as it rattled the walls. 

Atan the Red rose to his feet as Allin began stammering several long and excited sentences. Sam stared at the man’s legs and feet, which were now the only visible parts from the hobbits’ viewpoint. The gigantic man’s legs were the size of oaken tree trunks; his foot could easily crush a hobbit’s skull. Sam squinted and began to examine the tattoos wound around Atan’s legs. _‘I dearly hope there are no pictures of him stepping on hobbit heads.’_ It was a disturbing thought, and Sam could not help but wonder what the Gaffer would think of such a demise—or Rosie, for that matter. 

_‘I wonder if she would even miss me,’_ he thought with a heavy sigh. _‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she up and married Gruno Chubb when news of our deaths reached the Shire.’_ The stouthearted gardener scowled at the image of beautiful Rosie hanging off of the arm of Gruno Chubb—a rather paunchy hobbit with an overtly lumpy head. 

He soothed himself by imagining Gruno’s head underneath Atan the Red’s mammoth foot; Chubb’s lumpy face puffing out in indignation while the tattooed giant’s boot slowly pressed downward... 

“Sam?” 

Sam wiped the foolish grin off his face and blinked sheepishly, hoping he had not accidentally laughed out loud, or said anything out loud for that matter. Frodo and Pippin were both looking at him in minor annoyance, having called his name more than once. “Yes Frodo?” 

“They want us to come out now.” 

Atan the Red’s giant boot tapped impatiently. Sam noticed the man’s legs were nearly as hairy as his own hobbit feet. “Well then,” he said, “I guess we ought to, shouldn’t we?” 

The three dusty and disheveled hobbits crawled out from underneath Allin and Laure’s bed. Pippin sneezed as he brushed the dirt from his arms and then wiped his hands on his trousers. Sam tried unsuccessfully to flatten a clump of hair, which insisted on standing on end, and Frodo gave the front of his soiled tunic a forceful tug before offering Atan and Vanrie a polite bow. 

“Greetings, good sir and lady,” he began, “I am Frodo. These are my companions Pippin and Sam.” Pippin smiled and Sam waved shyly at mention of their names. “We didn’t mean to startle you, and—“ 

Atan the Red raised a hand and Frodo stopped speaking immediately. “There is no need to apologize, Frodohobbit,” the man spoke in Westron. “It is I who must apologize.” 

“Oh no, don’t worry sir,” exclaimed Pippin with a shake of his head. “You scared us at first because you were so big, but we don’t hold it against you. Besides,” he added ruefully, “most folk are bigger than us. There’s no need for an apology on your part either.” 

Atan the Red dipped his head in thanks. “My son tells me you came across him on the mountainside, and that you brought him much luck on his watch this day.” 

The three hobbits nodded vigorously, still somewhat intimidated by the large tattooed man with the broadsword. 

“Indeed,” continued Atan, “long has it been since the Eldar graced our barren lands.” 

“Eld—” began Sam. 

To their complete surprise, Atan the Red bowed down onto one knee and placed the great sword flat across his palms. “Our village is a thousand times blessed by the presence of Mountain Elves.” He held out his arms and offered his sword to the hobbits in a gesture of subservience. “I offer my service unto you, Firstborn children, and the service of my people.” 

“Mountain Elves?” hissed Sam. “He thinks we’re Mountain Elves?” 

Frodo laughed and pressed a hand to his forehead. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, sir. Did Allin tell you this?” Allin conveniently averted his eyes and shuffled his feet. “We’re not—OOF!” Pippin silenced Frodo with an elbow to the gut. 

“We have traveled far and wide to reach your lands,” the young Took proclaimed with a wide sweep of his arm. “It is we who are honored to reside within your presence.” 

Atan lifted his head and smiled warmly. “Then come, master Elves.” His hearty voice filled the small room as he beckoned the three hobbits to the dinner table. “In two morrows' time we shall hold a grand feast in your honor, for truly, the Valar must smile upon Pahtoh this day!” 

Sam grabbed Pippin by the arm and Frodo resisted the urge to box the young hobbit’s ears. “Pippin,” Frodo hissed, “what have you done?” 

Pippin yanked his arm away from Sam’s grasp and squared his shoulders. “The way I see it,” he stated matter-of-factly, “we are deserving of a bit of warmth and comfort.” 

“But they think we’re Elves,” protested Sam. 

Pippin shrugged and crossly folded his arms over his chest. “Need I remind you where we are headed?” he snapped. “And just name one good thing that has come out of this Ring business so far! One good thing!” 

Frodo sighed wearily and Sam uncomfortably chewed on his bottom lip. 

“See,” hissed Pippin. “No good has come out of this whole mess so far! Frodo was stabbed, Lord Elrond is after us, crebain made off with us, _Merry is dead_ ,” his voice took on a hysterical note, causing the red-haired chieftain and his family to eye the hobbits curiously. “An even bigger bird is out to get us, and we aren’t even halfway to Mordor yet!” 

“Pippin, calm down,” Frodo murmured, trying to soothe the irate youngster. Pippin’s mention of the incident at Weathertop caused several unpleasant memories to surface. 

“Calm down? CALM DOWN? I’m trying to calm down, but you obviously would have us tramping through every known danger as well as the ones we don’t! We deserve a good rest, and we deserve to have a peaceful night’s sleep just once. Who cares if they think we’re Elves? Good, I say! GOOD. I seriously doubt the Valar will mind if we impersonate Elves, because after everything else we’ve gone through—“ the young hobbit bristled as he balled his fists and gnashed his teeth. “And all for the sake of a stupid little ring!” 

By this time, Atan the Red, Vanrie, Allin, and Laure were blatantly staring. 

“ _Shhh_ ,” hushed Sam, frantically trying to quiet his comrade. “It’s okay Pip. Mister Frodo is going to let us stay, aren’t you, Frodo?” The gardener turned a severe eye upon his friend and gave Frodo a look that suggested he had better agree. 

Frodo smiled crookedly and gave Pippin an amiable punch in the shoulder. “Of course we’ll stay.” To the great relief of Sam and Frodo, Pippin ceased shouting and allowed himself to be led to the dinner table. 

Thankfully, Atan the Red and his wife Vanrie did not press the hobbits over the nature of their argument. The people of Pahtoh were firm believers in minding one’s own business, and reasoned that if an issue were of any great importance to them, they would be informed of it. It was reasoning as stark and bare as the lands they inhabited, and suited the people well. 

Frodo watched in contentment as Sam and Pippin filled themselves to their hearts’ desire. _‘It is the first time I have seen Pippin smile in days,’_ he noted as he quietly sipped his mead. The meal was a lively one, as the family of Atan the Red proved to be most entertaining and gracious hosts. The smells of roasted meat, onions, and potatoes hung thick in the air, while a crackling fire cast flickering yellow and orange flames about the cozy room. 

Atan had a booming laughter that seemed to well up and overflow from deep within his chest. It was oddly comforting and inviting to hear. Vanrie was never at a loss for a witty comment or two, and felt it her duty to make sure each was given more than his fair share of food. Allin, who had the tendency to become overexcited, gave an animated and greatly exaggerated narrative of his meeting with the hobbits, while Pippin interrupted with minor details here and there. Laure, as she had not yet mastered the Common Tongue, pulled off her stockings and placed a foot next to Sam’s. She giggled nonstop as she compared the two, and even more so when Sam began wiggling his toes. 

Frodo was roused from his musings by an unexpected weight upon his leg. The sheepdog Nwahr had silently padded over to the quiet hobbit and rested a comforting head upon Frodo’s thigh. Frodo smiled and reached down to pet the dog, taking comfort in the feel of the warm velvety ears between his fingers. “Good dog,” he murmured, wishing Pippin’s earlier words would cease running through his head: 

_‘No good has come out of this mess so far! … And all for the sake of a stupid little ring!’_

* * * 

He was Shadowfax, King of the Mearas. He was a silver god wrapped in a cape of misty golden cloud. His hooves pounded the earth like thunder, his neigh split through the air like lightening. He was strong, witty, capable… 

And utterly lost. 

Shadowfax squealed in anger and lashed out his hind legs, feeling no pity for the poor juniper bush that took the brunt of his fury. He kicked harder until it was no more than a mass of splinters and bruised leaves. The great stallion snorted in disdain as the scent of bittersweet juniper leaves invaded his nostrils and caused his mouth to water. He turned and narrowed his eyes at the remaining bushes. That would show them. 

It was the third time he had passed the juniper grove, or at least, he was fairly certain it was the same grove. Perhaps he should have asked the goldfinch which way he was headed… The proud stallion shook his elegant head viciously to dispel the thought. He was Shadowfax, King of the Mearas. The day he would ask for directions was the day he would turn into a mare. An Elvish mare, to be exact. 

He flared his nostrils and flicked his ears. Aside from the permeating smell of damaged juniper, the air was chill and musky. The scents of decaying leaves, water, and wet earth hung in the misty atmosphere, and low clouds muted almost all sounds. The horse let out a slow breath, watching as it steamed and evaporated. The mist tended to distort things, causing odd shapes to appear, disappear, and then reappear in the swirling vapors. Usually they proved to be gnarled trees and gouged boulders, but sometimes the stallion swore the trees would actually pick themselves up and bound off into the mist. 

Shadowfax flicked his tail in annoyance. Bounding trees, indeed. 

He nearly jumped out of his beautiful silver coat as one such “tree” bolted across his line of vision. 

The horse blinked. Since when were the trees gifted with four legs? Quickly equating four legs and bounding with an animal that could not be of predatory nature, the stallion picked up his hooves and sped after the leaping “tree.” 

* * * 

“A hobbit lad, there was of old…” 

The mournful wail of Merry’s tune echoed pleasantly in the high-ceilinged room. 

_“A brave and perilous soul._

_Locked up by an Elven lord,_

_‘Til he began to mould….”_

Merry paused and cocked his head. Aside from the extremely annoying lark outside his window, which seemed to be fixated on the same chirrup, only silence greeted his ears. He cleared his throat and struck up the song again at a much louder volume level, closing his eyes and swinging his head to and fro in time with the beat. 

_“A HOBBIT LAD, THERE WAS OF OLD,_

A BRAVE AND PERILOUS SOUL. 

_LOCKED UP BY AN ELVEN LOR—“_ A light touch on the shoulder caused his eyes to snap open. 

Elrond’s voice rang clear and strong, as Merry seemed to have forgotten the last line. _“’Til he began to mould…’”_

The young hobbit flushed crimson and avoided the Elf lord’s eyes. “Bilbo taught it to me,” he blurted. 

Elrond chuckled and bent down to examine Merry’s wounds. “Quickly do the Pheriannath heal,” the Elf mused, his skillful hands running over the hobbit’s newly-fused collarbone. He emitted a small murmur of satisfaction at the sight of Merry’s fading bruises and scrapes. “You shall be fit for travel ere the Fellowship depart, Master Brandybuck.” 

A small sigh of relief escaped Merry’s lips. “I bet you will be happy to see me go.” He looked cheekily to the Lord of Imladris and grinned. 

Elrond’s bright eyes twinkled. “Nay, Meriadoc, I shall be most saddened when you take leave of my halls. I have not had the pleasure of one so antagonistic since Elladan and Elrohir were children.” The Elf turned and began rummaging through the medicinal cupboards lining the wall of Merry’s room. 

“I am not antagonistic!” protested Merry. 

The Elf lord raised an eyebrow and turned to stare intently at the hobbit. “Indeed, Master Brandybuck. Yet you still found it necessary to loudly repeat your song when you thought none had overheard.” 

Merry blushed again. “I was trying to drown out the bird at my window,” he mumbled. 

“Ah, of course you were.” Elrond emptied a final vial of liquid into the cup of medicine he was concocting and turned back to Merry. He held the cup out to the hobbit and motioned for him to drink. Merry’s previous plans to refuse the Elf lord’s poison quickly vanished when he caught the challenging gleam in Elrond’s eyes. 

* * * 

Elrond stood by the hobbit’s bedside until he was positive Merry had fallen asleep. The young hobbit could be most devious when he wanted to—the previous day he had feigned sleep and actually hobbled all the way down the corridor. There was no telling how far he would have gone had Elenthil not chanced to walk by. 

Chuckling quietly to himself, the dark-haired Elven lord strode down the autumn-painted walkways of Rivendell. 

He reached his study in a few minutes’ time. Pushing open the light wooden door, Elrond was unsurprised to find his chief of counsel, Erestor scrutinizing several large and painstakingly-drawn maps of Rhudaur, Rhovanion,* and the whole of Middle-earth. 

“I conversed with Rithol but an hour ago,” said Erestor as he lifted his head to greet Elrond. “Her news does not bode well for Imladris.” 

“Nor does it offer comfort to Mirkwood or Lórien,” Elrond replied. He walked over to the map-covered desk and idly seated himself. “Speak, my friend. I know you are troubled, as am I.” 

* * * 

Erestor folded his arms across his chest and frowned. “I worry naught for Imladris, for our borders are well-protected.” He glanced at the ring on Elrond’s finger. “Foolish indeed is the foe who would dare challenge our fair realm.” 

“Perhaps,” murmured Elrond. “But perhaps not. Sauron is aware the Ring rests within our borders, though he does not know of our intentions. An assault on Imladris would not only serve to cripple us, but he might obtain the Ring through such action as well…” 

Erestor shook his head. “Nay, nay,” he argued. “It would be far simpler for him to seize the Ring as the Fellowship traveled to Mordor.” Elrond’s head counselor traced his finger along a map from Rivendell to Mordor. “Besides, he has not amassed numbers to launch a full-scale attack against Imladris as of yet. Roving orc bands are but tiny stones sent to dam a surging river. I suspect they intend to waylay those traveling to and from Imladris.” 

Elrond laced his fingers together and sighed. “I think you underestimate the numbers of Sauron’s force, Erestor.” He quickly pressed on as Erestor opened his mouth to object. “Nonetheless, I go with your counsel on the unlikeness of an attack. The ultimate fate of the Ring is not to be decided within our borders.” 

Erestor gave a curt nod. “Very well, my Lord. Then let us move on.” 

Elrond narrowed his eyes and stared at the maps’ outline of the Misty Mountains. “We know the eastern scouting party interrupted the orcs’ slumber, which explains why they were attacked while the sun’s light was still strong. We also know that the party had been split into two groups due to certain… _disagreements_ among members.” Elrond sighed deeply and put a hand to his temple. 

“Perhaps you ought to consider replacing the young Prince of Mirkwood with a more mature warrior,” suggested Erestor. “I do not doubt Legolas’ abilities, but it is the fate of Middle-earth of which we speak. He is Sindar and but a child—“ 

Elrond held up a hand. “Nay Erestor. We cannot risk a known Elf lord traveling with the Fellowship. It would draw far too much attention to the company. Legolas’ presence will go unnoticed by the Enemy, for he will be viewed as but an insignificant Wood-Elf. Do not worry, my friend. He will prove himself worthy when the time comes.” 

“With all my heart do I hope you are right,” Erestor murmured. “After Mithrandir and Estel, I find my faith slowly wanes.” An unexpected smile danced across the slender Elf’s lips. “I do, however, admit to taking quite a fancy to the merry Pheriannath.” He slyly looked to Elrond. “And I suppose if Meriadoc Brandybuck is no exception, the Dark Lord shall find he has taken on more than he bargained for in those stouthearted folk.” 

Elrond smiled in spite of himself. 

“How did the tune go?” Despite the light innocence of Erestor’s tone, a wicked grin slowly spreading across his fair face. _“’A hobbit lad, there was of old—‘“_

“Save your enchanting voice for the evening festivities,” Elrond growled in mock warning, “lest you suddenly discover yourself lacking a tongue.” 

* * * 

Time slowly slipped by and day gradually waned to dusk. Soft shadows spread along the floors of Elrond’s study and listened silently as the two Elves continued to debate. Erestor lit several candelabras while Elrond poured two cups of warm cider. 

“Then we are both in agreement that the Orkish bands must somehow be pushed from our borders?” 

Erestor nodded and shook out the match he had used to light the candles. He graciously accepted a goblet of cider from the Elf lord. 

“I dare not use Vilya,” Elrond continued, shuddering at the very thought. “I suppose we may try tactics employed by Thranduil’s folk to rid ourselves of the enemy. Long have they succeeded in staving off the darkness, without aid of ring or staff.” He pursed his lips and frowned. “I wish I knew of their exact methods.” 

Erestor’s dark eyes flashed. “I believe they tend to favor charging heedlessly into battle, regardless of whether or not they have been ordered to.” 

“Peace, Erestor.” Elrond took a sip of cider and mildly eyed his chief counselor. “We have awoken far too much of the Past these last weeks; let us allow some of it to remain undisturbed.” 

******* 

_Rhudaur- The area consisting of Rivendell, the Trollshaws, The Last Bridge, etc._

_Rhovanion- Mirkwood, a bit of the Misty Mountains, Lórien, and surrounding areas._


	24. If You Give a Dwarf an Arrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

__**A/N** :  
A round of applause for Halbarad’s reviewer-inspired rescue plan! ;)

CHARATCTER LIST

_Western Scouting Party_ : 

Malbeorn- a veteran Ranger 

Rowgond- a young Ranger from Hollin 

Halbarad- Aragorn’s longtime Ranger pal 

Aragorn 

Boromir 

_Eastern Scouting Party_ : 

Orimhedil- male Elf warrior from Rivendell 

Barin- male Dwarf from the Lonely Mountain 

Glóin- father of Gimli 

Glorfindel 

Legolas 

Gimli 

******* 

A pale dawn and smoky blue remnants of the previous night’s campfire were all that greeted the Rangers when they awoke. Breakfast was a scant affair consisting of bread, tea, and plans of how to rescue the captured son of Denethor. 

The day had broken uncharacteristically warm, reducing the frozen ground to soupy mud. Halbarad, cloak hanging carelessly from his shoulder, took to a nonchalant pacing between puddles while Aragorn sketched an outline of Fenadoch in the wet earth. Grizzled Malbeorn prowled along the borders of their recluse amidst soggy leaves, padding between trees with such stealth that would impress even an Elf. 

Rowgond knelt beside Aragorn and frowned. “I suppose,” he said, “if we each slipped in after dusk, we might be able to locate Boromir’s whereabouts.” 

Aragorn nodded. “I was thinking along similar lines myself. And I am sure Malbeorn would prefer such a method as well.” After shooting momentary glances towards the solitary grey figure slinking through the trees, the two Rangers turned their attention back to the rough drawing. Various tactics of how to go about infiltrating the town carried softly in the still morning, blending with the odd birdcall and steady patter of dripping tree branches. 

“I see no fault in my plan.” Halbarad leaned back against a gnarled oak tree, ignoring its wet bark, and pretended to squint up at the morning sky as though it suddenly required his undivided attention. 

Rowgond raised his head and unleashed an impressive glare at the tall Ranger. “I do,” the younger man spat. 

A lazy smile spread across Halbarad’s face, though he kept his head tilted towards the heavens. “Of course you do, Rowgond. That is because you are young and inexperienced.” 

Rowgond’s glower deepened. “I am _not_ wearing a dress! You cannot make me—I refuse!” The young Ranger folded his arms across his chest and glared challengingly at his companions, giving all the appearance of a miffed bear cub. “And if you so much as mention it one more time, I shall—“ 

“You shall what?” Halbarad cocked an eyebrow at the blonde Ranger and smirked. It was a look Aragorn knew well, and one that more often than not resulted in an overwhelming urge to remove it from the man’s face by physical means. Valar only knew how many tavern fights Halbarad had purposely started by merely quirking his lips in such a smug manner. 

Rowgond opened his mouth several times to respond, then came to the infuriating conclusion there was very little he could do. Halbarad chuckled as the younger Ranger muttered vehemently under his breath. “If you are so intent on one of us slipping into the village disguised as a woman in order to save the son of Denethor,” Rowgond snapped, after several moments of unintelligible muttering, “I think you ought to be the one to do it.” 

Halbarad unsheathed his hunting knife and began to nonchalantly flip it in his hand. “But I lack the well-defined features of a Hollin-bred beauty such as yourself. Is he not wondrously fair to look upon, Aragorn?” He smoothly gestured to Rowgond with the haft of his knife, and then resumed flipping it. “Indeed, I would almost go as far to say he rivals that pretty Elf friend of yours. What was his name?” 

Aragorn blinked. “His?” 

“Yes.” Halbarad paused his incessant flipping of the knife and frowned. 

“Legolas?” Aragorn mentally apologized to the Elf for having immediately thought of him at the mention of “pretty.” 

Halbarad shook his head. “Nay, not Legolas. It was the Elf who did not like me.” 

Aragorn regarded the dark-haired Ranger with raised eyebrows. There were many Elves who did not like Halbarad. 

“I believe he hailed from Lórien,” Halbarad continued. “He was visiting Rivendell for some purpose, and took an immediate disliking to me. I never did figure out as to why that was.” 

Aragorn snorted. “Haldir. It was Haldir. And as to him _‘taking an immediate disliking’_ to you: I believe it took root the moment you took it upon yourself to chase after the maiden he has been courting for quite some time.” 

“He chased after an Elven maiden?” Rowgond snickered as he stood and brushed mud from his hands. 

“I was only trying to follow Aragorn’s lead,” Halbarad sniffed, sheathing his knife and kneeling to pack up his bedroll. 

Aragorn fought down a rising blush and held up his hands. “Nay my friend, I am not to blame for your shortcomings.” 

“Aragorn’s lead?” asked Rowgond. “Oh, of course—Arwen…” The young Ranger looked curiously to Aragorn. “How exactly did you manage to capture her? Aragorn, are you blushing?” 

In light of further embarrassment, the Heir of Isildur tactfully changed the subject. “We must rescue Boromir before evening.” He strode over to Malbeorn and looked through the trees to the dawn-lit rooftops of Fenadoch. 

“Why?” asked Rowgond. 

Aragorn held up a hand and motioned for silence. “Listen. What do you hear?” 

Rowgond paused. “I hear… the wind. A bird. Drops of water and the branches of the trees as they creak in the breeze…” 

“The man did not request you recite poetry,” groused Halbarad. Aragorn shot him a warning look. Halbarad shrugged and rolled his eyes. 

“And what do you hear over it all? More specifically, what do you hear echoing from the town?” 

Rowgond blinked. “Ah… Knocking.” He turned to face Aragorn and furrowed his brow in confusion. “A lot of knocking and banging.” 

_“Hammering,”_ Halbarad emphasized. 

Malbeorn’s smooth growl startled all three. “They build gallows.” 

An uncomfortable pall settled over the company while they finished packing. Silence reigned over the ring of ash, oak, and thorn trees, save squelching footfalls and the eager snorts of horses. _‘What am I to tell Father should ill befall Boromir?’_ Aragorn’s mind raced as he counted his blades for the fifth time—a nervous compulsion he could not seem to rid himself of. _‘What would befall Gondor, for that matter?’_

Of all the Fellowship, only Boromir possessed strong connexions with the race of Men. Granted, Aragorn was deigned to rule them, but he had been raised in an Elven household and “grew up Elvish,” as Halbarad was fond of saying. Aragorn was not so bold as to stake his claim without support of the people. Or, more importantly, without the support of Boromir. Boromir was his link to Men; he needed Boromir. 

Halbarad gathered his saddle and threw it over his mount with a grunt. “I suppose we shall have to vote on the manner of rescue. All those in favor of Rowgond demonstrating his knowledge of feminine wiles—“ 

“Halbarad,” interrupted Aragorn, “Even if I were to agree with your plans of rescue—which I do not—where are we to find a dress?” 

Rowgond leaned around the stocky black shoulder of his steed and smirked at Halbarad. “I bet he has one in his travel sack.” 

“Aye, and its lovely blue will match your eyes,” responded the Ranger. 

Malbeorn cleared his throat. “Or we might ride in and grab Boromir as he is taken to the gallows.” 

All three Rangers turned to stare at him in silence. 

“And that does not lack in subtlety,” came Aragorn’s dry comment. He shook his head incredulously. “You surprise me, Malbeorn. I seem to recall a certain Ranger stressing the importance of stealth above all else.” 

“Yes,” answered the greying Ranger, “and this I still believe. But as the past few days have demonstrated your skill in the area, I deem it necessary to explore other options.” 

Aragorn brushed aside the insult before it sank in. During his younger years he often took to heart and would brood over Malbeorn’s comments for days. It had taken him some time to realize the man meant no ill will towards him; the steely aloofness was just the Ranger’s manner and covered a fierce, protective loyalty to those he cared for. 

Still, such remarks occasionally drew Aragorn’s ire. Malbeorn seemed to have a knack for driving him, and many others, to aggravated indignation. Even Elrohir, one of the most patient souls Aragorn knew, had fallen victim to the old Ranger’s bite. And during Aragorn’s first journey to Esgaroth, Legolas’ brother Calengaladh had nearly left them to wander the Old Forest Road unaided after Malbeorn curtly reprimanded the Elf for training an arrow at his forehead. 

Aragorn’s horse gave him a fond nudge and snorted, effectively breaking the Ranger’s train of thought. The dark-haired Ranger blinked and patted the stallion’s shoulder, giving the saddle girth one last tug to make sure it was secure. Grabbing Roheryn’s wiry black mane, he hoisted himself up and swung one leg over the horse’s broad back. 

He twisted around in the saddle and surveyed the remaining group, taking in their subtle differences: Rowgond was short and stocky, as was his steed. The horse barely stood 15 hands. The young Ranger’s hood covered his corn-silk hair and lighter complexion. His build was most ill-suited for the cloaked garb he wore—it tended to make him appear extremely puffy. 

Malbeorn, meanwhile, was thin and wiry atop an aging stallion flecked with silver. Aragorn did not doubt both still had quite a few years left. The crafty veteran and his horse stood poised and statuesque, seemingly indifferent to whatever might come their way. Had it not been for the man’s clipped beard and the obvious effects of Time playing across every line in his face, Aragorn would swear the greying Ranger was an Elf. Though he had known Malbeorn for years, the man’s origins were still somewhat of a mystery. Halbarad was convinced the old Ranger had been raised in the woods by a family of foxes. It was an opinion he voiced loudly and often—when Malbeorn was, of course, out of earshot. 

And then there was Halbarad: tall, lean and obviously at ease on the back of his lively mount. He and Aragorn had been fast friends the moment Aragorn arrived at the Rangers’ camp to begin his training. The dark-haired Dúnedan had taken it upon himself to rid Aragorn of what he viewed as “Elvish snobbery.” Aragorn loved him like a brother. 

The Heir of Isildur started as a cold droplet of water from an overhanging thorn branch splashed across his nose. He absentmindedly brushed it aside. “Do any object to Malbeorn’s plan? I believe it risky, but we have few options and time runs short.” 

Giving his head a slight bob, Halbarad flashed Aragorn the giddy, mad grin of one who knows he is about to charge headfirst into disaster. “We stand with you and await your command, Strider.” 

Aragorn kicked Roheryn’s sides with his heels. “Proceed.” 

“Should we not first work out some semblance of a plan?” Rowgond asked nervously as they left the protective ring of oak, ash, and thorn trees. 

Aragorn heard Halbarad chuckle. “We already have a plan, my Hollin beauty: Should you see Boromir, grab him.” 

* * * 

Gimli fumbled with the bow and arrow in his numbed hands. Thick white snow continued to flurry about him, settling in his eyelashes and rendering any form of sight impossible. _‘Not that I suppose it matters whether I can see the wicked beast or not,’_ the Dwarf thought as he squinted and blinked profusely. _‘It would be just as well if I shot with my eyes closed.’_

His fingers, which seemed far too slow and cumbersome, sought to nock the weightless arrow against the bowstring. Gimli was positive he had held feathers heavier than the fletched wooden shaft. There was a certain amount of comfort found in the bulky weight of an axe or sword; such weapons seemed real and dangerous. Legolas’ flimsy bow elicited no such feelings, and Gimli suddenly felt himself extremely vulnerable and bare. It was a feeling he did not like. 

He cried out in dismay as the slender arrow slipped from his grasp and landed harmlessly into the snow. 

The Warg lowered its head and stalked back and forth, tail lashing to and fro across its thickly furred body.* Snow folded and crunched beneath the beast’s massive paws. A low growl rumbled deep within its chest. 

Gimli knelt and fumbled frantically in the snow for the dropped arrow, keeping his eyes trained on the prowling beast. Its piggish eyes gleamed as it pulled back wrinkled jowls to reveal yellow, dagger-like fangs. A wave of revulsion swept over Gimli as he caught sight of long saliva strings extending from the Warg’s upper and lower lips. 

The dark beast hunched to a pouncing position; oversized shoulder muscles bulging as they contracted under its bristling fur. Cracked, razor-like nails extended from snow-flecked paws. Gimli’s hands rabidly sought out the arrow. Where was Glóin? Where was Barin? Even Glorfindel or Orimhedil would have been a welcomed sight. 

He cried out in triumph as his frozen hand came into contact with the arrow’s fletching. Quickly lurching to his feet, the Dwarf threateningly brandished the arrow at the Warg—as though he held a spear or sword within his hand. “Hah! Back, you demon beast! BACK!” 

The Warg snarled and dodged the Dwarf’s jabs. Gimli snarled right back. 

A groan from behind nearly distracted him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the swaying figure of Legolas. The flighty prince had managed to stagger most un-Elf-like to his knees and, aside from his disorientation, appeared utterly mortified. “Stay down, Elf,” Gimli ordered, returning his attention to the snarling Warg. 

“You—you—That is my—“ Despite the severity of their situation, Gimli could not help but get a small measure of satisfaction from the knowledge he had rendered the wordy Elf incoherent. He was suddenly struck by the thought of throwing the Elf at the Warg; as such an action would probably be more effective than the flimsy arrow he was currently using to keep the creature at bay. 

The Warg howled and hunched again. Gimli somehow managed to correctly nock the arrow, though the angle at which he did so would have caused many an archer to pale. 

Pulling the bowstring back proved even more difficult. Legolas was apparently much stronger than he looked, and had Gimli been less acquainted with metals he would have sworn the bow was strung with iron cords. He was thankful the Elf’s weapon was not a longbow*, for it would have been impossible to draw. 

Gimli pulled back the bowstring with all his might, nearly ripping his arm from its socket in the process. He could feel the muscles in his forearm quiver as they protested violently against the strain. The Warg sprang forth. Its snarling mass slammed into Gimli like a sack of toothed bricks. As the two combatants tumbled to the snowy ground, Gimli released the arrow—or rather, the bowstring snapped back to its original position. 

There was a surprised cry of pain, and then silence. 

Hastily scrambling to his feet, Gimli brushed snow from his face and burnt beard. His eyes darted furtively over the snowscape as he squinted and sought out the dark creature’s body. It lay wriggling on its back, desperately attempting to right itself. With a low-pitched keen, the Warg staggered to its paws in defeat. 

Fierce pride followed by a swift rush of adrenaline coursed through Gimli. He, Gimli son of Glóin, had done it. He had shot the Warg with what was quite possibly the worst weapon ever conceived by any race on Middle-earth. “And let THAT not be a lesson you forget!” he thundered, raising the bow and shaking it victoriously at the panting, slobbering Warg. 

The panting, slobbering… unscathed Warg. 

Gimli blinked and lowered the bow. Why was the Warg still standing? Where had the arrow gone? He hadn’t counted on using more than one to slay the beast. 

The Warg sat back on its haunches and cocked its head. It shook the snow from its foul face and shuffled massive paws. _‘It appears… confused,’_ Gimli decided. Perhaps he had shot it in the head. 

The dark beast whined at him. Then, to Gimli’s great surprise, it slowly walked off into the swirling snow, casting several dumbfounded glances over its shoulder as it retreated. 

Gimli was just as puzzled. Why hadn’t the Warg attacked him? 

A sharp hiss of pain from his left distracted him from his ruminations. “Shut-up, Elf,” he snapped. “Allow me a moment for thought—it is the least you could do considering I have just saved both of our lives.” If another Warg chose to attack, he intended to deal with it in the same manner as that of the first. That was, if he could figure out exactly what it was he had done. 

Gimli’s ears caught the blasphemous phrases directed towards his kin, which Legolas did not even bother to revert back to Sindarin before delivering. 

He spun around, intending to break the Elf’s bow over his empty, pretty head. 

Only then did he find the missing arrow. 

It was projecting from Legolas’ thigh. 

******* 

_* “The Warg lowered its head and stalked back and forth, tail lashing to and fro across its thickly furred body.”_ \--- I am unsure whether or not Wargs have tails. (I must admit, I’ve never actually seen one.) Speaking from a strictly evolutionary standpoint, a tail would serve to help balance the animal (which we are told is very large). 

_* “He was thankful the Elf’s weapon was not a longbow,”_ \--- Legolas didn’t use a longbow until Galadriel presented him with one in Lothlórien. Further evidence is given during the Fellowship’s journey to Moria ( The Fellowship of the Ring, Book II, Chapter V: The Bridge of Khazad-Dûm), Tolkien writes: _‘Legolas turned and set an arrow to the string, though it was a long shot for his small bow.’_

_Fear not for the safety of our beloved Elf! Resident physiologist, Ruth, has kindly offered to see to his ailments. He rests in capable hands._


	25. The Bear, the Rangers, and Their Wardrobe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

**CHARACTER LIST**

_Eastern Scouting Party_ : 

Orimhedil- male Elf warrior from Rivendell 

Barin- male Dwarf from the Lonely Mountain 

*Mithlaf- Legolas’ horse 

Glóin- Father of Gimli 

Glorfindel 

Gimli 

Legolas 

_The House of Oropher:_

Lhûn- Eldest living son of Thranduil. Heir of Mirkwood 

Calengaladh- 2nd (living) son of Thranduil 

Mallos- 3rd (living) son of Thranduil 

Tuilë- daughter and 4th (living) child of Thranduil 

******** 

It was quite unnerving to attend trial while the very gallows from which you will hang are being constructed outside the door. Boromir found himself wondering why the town had even bothered to give him a trial. 

As things stood, he was accused and pre-convicted of destroying the Last Bridge, rampaging the town, burning down the Singing Mûmak—Fenadoch’s oldest establishment, Sorcery in the Degree of Infatuation (of which Boromir did not quite understand, but suspected Mysian had something to do with the matter), serving the Dark Lord, and leading the Black Riders’ charge through Fenadoch. Several of the townsfolk had also accused him of bringing bad dreams, and one elderly lady was convinced he had slain her cat. 

Then came the stories. 

One farmer had seen him perch on the window ledge of the Singing Mûmak and transform himself into a great black dragon. He had then breathed fire into the room, which eventually led to the demise of the tavern. 

Boromir tried to remind the townsfolk that they had been the ones to set the Singing Mûmak on fire, but he was apparently forbidden to speak. 

One of the men who had charged the Rangers’ door with Mysian claimed to have stabbed Boromir no less than fifteen times, yet Boromir had not a scratch on him. Boromir had wretched the spear from his hands, the man insisted, and then sang a strange chant over it. The spear transformed into a dead fish, and the man had brought the fish to prove it. 

All townsfolk in the building had gasped in horror at the sight of the eyeless, dead fish. Boromir had, of course, taken the eyes of the fish and put them into his own head. 

The man of Gondor was by this time so disgusted that he sarcastically puffed out his cheeks and wiggled his hands behind his ears in the manner of a fish. Several women fainted from sheer terror. 

The judge reached a verdict within five minutes of the trial’s completion. Thus, when he was sentenced to hang, Boromir had already begun to plot whom his wraith would haunt. First, he would haunt the Fish Story Peasant, then the Black Dragon Farmer. Then there would be the judge, the old cat lady… And Aragorn. Aragorn and his mighty Rangers, who had all fled and left him in the hands of the rabid townsfolk. Boromir scowled, deciding he would terrorize the Heir of Isildur for the rest of his days. When Aragorn passed away, he would move on to any of the man’s descendants. 

And while he was busy spooking Fenadoch he might as well give the serving maiden Mysian a few scares. 

He shot a quick glance towards the rosy-cheeked maiden, who sat calmly amongst the other peasants. Though she did not believe him to be the son of Denethor, Boromir suspected she was beginning to doubt his affiliation with Sauron. If only he could speak with her… 

* 

The frayed rope bonds chafed against his hands. The bailiff chuckled as he slipped the noose over Boromir’s head. The shoddy wooden platform wobbled precariously as the bailiff jauntily strode to the side. Boromir traced the outline of the trapdoor-styled floor with his eyes. When the floor was released, there would be nothing left to hold him in place but the rope. 

He closed his eyes and gulped, acutely aware that these were his last minutes on Middle-earth. _‘Strange,’_ he thought. _‘I always envisioned myself being slain on the battlefield.’_ Yet here he was, the son of Denethor Steward of Gondor, about to be hung like a common thief by a rabble of country zealots. There was no glory to be found in such a demise; no honor. In fact, it was rather embarrassing. _‘I hope the Elves are kind enough to tell Father and Faramir I died with a sword in my hand, inflicting much damage on the enemy.’_

Elves… Elrond. He quickly made a mental note to haunt the Elf lord as well. 

The townsfolk were shouting and catcalling, but he felt oddly removed from the scene. Faces leered and smirked; mouths opened and closed as words were flung at him. He heard nothing. 

As the bailiff began to speak, and the bloodthirsty crowd continued to roar, Boromir sought out Mysian’s face. She stood watching him with what Boromir believed to be a touch of sympathy, but for the most part remained impassive. Boromir sighed. He was going to die alone and surrounded by enemies. 

The bailiff paused as someone began pointing in the direction of the town gates and screaming. Boromir felt a ripple of alarm wash over the crowd and looked bleakly to Fenadoch’s entrance. At least being situated on the platform gave him a clear view. 

A ragged cry of relief caught in his throat: Aragorn had arrived. 

The Rangers and their fierce steeds charged into the town, cloaks snapping and billowing behind them as though the fabric contained a life of its own. The townspeople were sent into panic: women screamed, children cried, and men grabbed whatever weapons they could. 

Boromir groaned. It was small wonder Fenadoch had mistaken them for the Nazgûl. _‘Why,’_ he thought, _‘could they not have chosen a different color for their garb? A nice green or royal purple, perhaps?_

Unfortunately, his ruminations were cut short. The man of Gondor suddenly discovered there was no solid ground beneath his feet. 

* * * 

Legolas, his face pinched and white, tightly gripped his injured leg. His shoulder was still numb, his head was throbbing, and the world had yet to cease spinning. White hot flashes of pain seared up his thigh, contrasting sickeningly with the bone chilling cold he could not seem to rid himself of. The young Elf felt the warm slickness of blood spill over his hands despite his best efforts to staunch the flow. 

He suspected he would have passed out long ago had it not been for the sheer, scalding fury lacing through his veins. 

He narrowed his eyes in warning as Gimli took a hesitant step forward. The Dwarf wisely stopped. 

Legolas continued to glare as Gimli made pretense of scouring the area. Leaving Legolas to fend for himself was somewhat out of the question; especially considering Gimli was to blame for the Elf’s current condition. 

A dark figure loomed from behind in the driving snow. The flustered Dwarf, desperately seeking to escape the piercing eyes of Legolas, did not notice. 

Legolas held his tongue, hoping whatever it was would pounce and rip the lowly Dwarf to shreds. 

Being the object of an Elven glare was akin to having thousands of tiny needles poking a body all over. It was immensely uncomfortable, to say the least. 

Gimli turned abruptly, deciding the skin on his back was thicker and better adept at dealing with such looks. His face met the snow-covered body directly behind him. With a muffled cry of surprise, the Dwarf fell heavily into the snow and landed on his backside. 

“My apologies, son of Glóin. I thought you knew I approached from behind.” Glorfindel’s concerned face peered down at him. Relief washed over Gimli like a wave. 

The snow-covered Elf lord still breathed in exertion from the skirmish. His cheeks were flushed and his bright eyes had yet to lose the reckless gleam of battle. He gracefully extended a hand and offered it to the Dwarf. Gimli gratefully accepted and grunted in surprise as he was quickly hauled to his feet. 

“I am afraid I lost sight of Orimhedil and your kin,” said the golden-haired Elf. He squinted into the snow. “I believe all fared well.” He turned his attention back to Gimli and gave the Dwarf a wry smile. “It would appear not all luck has abandoned us. There were naught more than ten Wargs. If we—“ Glorfindel cut himself off and blinked in puzzlement. “Gimli, is that Legolas’ bow you hold within your hand?” 

Gimli wished he had thought to drop the bow. 

Glorfindel frowned. “Where is Legolas?” 

His grey eyes slid past Gimli and rested on the silently bleeding form of Legolas, who had learned long ago it was better to be seen than heard. Such methods generally produced more shock in authority figures and led to greater punishments for the perpetrators. 

It was quite by accident that Legolas discovered the method. When he had been fifteen, his sister Tuilë took it upon herself to cut the Elfling’s hair. Alas, Mirkwood’s youngest prince could not be made to sit still for prolonged periods of time, and the resulting trim was nothing short of a disaster. 

Legolas, as he was but a child, gave no thought to his appearance. He had been thrilled to finally escape his sister’s clutches and saw no need to go screaming to his father—a tactic he always employed when dealing with the cruelties of his older brothers. 

The evening meal had been a memorable one. 

Legolas, as he had been taught, solemnly walked into the dining room and stood by his chair in preparation for the arrival of Thranduil. There had been several gasps from the servants. Old Galion nearly dropped the pitcher of wine he held. Tuilë had gone quite pale, whereas Mallos’ jaw dropped in shock, Calengaladh made a strange choking sound, and Lhûn had raised an eyebrow and shot Tuilë a very un-amused look. 

Legolas would often use the reactions of Lhûn to predict the reactions of Thranduil. Lhûn, as he was the eldest and heir of Mirkwood, was the most alike to Thranduil in action and disposition. Legolas found it most convenient (and far less dangerous) to first test his limits with Lhûn. If Lhûn allowed a certain escapade or action to slip by, chances were Thranduil would too. It did not always work as such, but for the most part it kept Legolas from facing the permanent wrath of Thranduil. 

Lhûn’s gaze suggested Tuilë was headed for trouble, indeed. 

When at last Thranduil arrived, the atmosphere had grown so tense the Elven-king immediately suspected something was amiss. He questioningly looked to each of his children, and when at last his eyes fell upon Legolas… 

Tuilë’s punishment lasted until Mirkwood’s youngest prince regained a full head of hair. 

Legolas had carefully stored the incident away, somewhat intrigued by the effect his lack of reaction had caused. He did not wish for Tuilë to be punished, but his brothers were another matter all together. 

Thus, the next time Mallos and Calengaladh left him tied and hanging from a beech tree by the cord of his bowstring (they had told him it was the only way he would ever grow as tall as they and he foolishly believed them), he patiently waited until the search party found him. It was a full day before the frantic group discovered the Elfling, as Mallos and Calengaladh had forgotten which tree they left him in. Rumor had it that even Thranduil had joined the search, and the whole kingdom was in uproar over the missing prince. 

The Elven-king had been none-too-pleased to learn his youngest son was found quietly dangling from the branches of a massive beech tree, and was even more displeased that Legolas had been there all night. 

Calengaladh and Mallos were ordered to dangle themselves from the same tree for a day, and then banned from any form of archery for a full year. Both had been furious. 

Lhûn, on the other hand, had been quite amused by the whole affair. The eldest and youngest sons of Thranduil had never been particularly close, as their ages were so far apart and their interaction usually consisted of Legolas pulling a foolhardy stunt while Lhûn did his best not to throttle the young Elf. Looking back, Legolas supposed it was the first time his antics were not directed towards Lhûn, which allowed his brother to view him as more than just a nerve-snapping Elfling. Following the incident, Lhûn began to treat his littlest brother with a bit of affection. He flatly refused, however, to take Legolas on any prolonged journey or scouting mission, claiming, “His antics would drive me to madness. Being strung from a tree would be the least of his worries.” 

Gimli had hoped the others might not notice the arrow protruding from the Elf’s thigh. It was a futile wish, he knew, but he could not help himself. 

Unfortunately, one would have to be blind in order to miss the shaft, and the Elven eyes of Glorfindel were anything but. Gimli’s skin crawled as those eyes traveled from the feathered arrow to the bow in his hands. He decided he ought to start explaining himself before the Elf lord struck him down. 

“There was a Warg,” he rumbled, “I dropped my axe and found the bow, Warg jumped over knocked we fell backwards,” he vaguely realized his words had stopped making sense and hoped Glorfindel would be able to pick out the important ones. “Flipped arrow accident shot.” The Elf lord had not yet moved, and Gimli grew more concerned, having come to recognize the danger of a still Elf. He threw out more words in vain and hoped the Elf would respond. Even Glorfindel’s eyes had ceased to blink—a dire sign indeed as he tended to blink quite a bit. “Leg arrow bow Elf snow…” He trailed off miserably. 

“He has shot me.” Deeming the time right to put an end to his noble suffering, Legolas offered further explanation of the situation. 

Glorfindel was not in the habit of wishing for death. He had already died once, and that was enough for him. Yet at that moment, he suddenly found himself desiring such a thing. He wanted the mountain rock to open and swallow him up. Or perhaps a lightening bolt courtesy of the Valar. Maybe an icicle would snap from some rocky overhang, or a Balrog would appear around the path and require the Elf lord to play martyr. He supposed there was always the option of throwing himself down the mountain, but he did not relish the feel of falling through the air. Though at this point, he was willing to try almost anything if it meant escaping the frozen nightmare he now inhabited. 

_‘Legolas is bleeding,’_ his mind reminded him. Thousands of years of battle experience instinctively took over. 

“Gimli,” he ordered as he approached the fallen Elf. “Please fetch Orimhedil.” His voice sounded remarkably calm and collected given his inner thoughts: The group was trapped inside an icy tomb, and even if they were to get out, what then? They could either trek back to Imladris in defeat and meet countless numbers of orcs and whatever other beasts were on the loose, or continue their suicidal journey to the High Pass and face more dark creatures and fickle weather. Legolas’ injury only added to their growing troubles. There was no telling what sort of beasts would be attracted by the scent of blood, and the group was in no condition to make fast getaways. _‘At least Legolas is awake,’_ he thought. _‘Though he still looks far too pale and shaky.’_

He took off his cloak and draped it about the younger Elf’s shoulders, then placed his hands over Legolas’ in further effort to staunch the flow of blood. “If Orimhedil has his pack, we shall remove the arrow before we attempt to escape this place. If not, I am afraid we must wait until we locate the horses.” He sighed. “It appears they were smarter than we, and most of our supplies are in their packs.” 

Legolas grimaced and spoke through clenched teeth. “Leave it.” 

Glorfindel blinked. “Pardon? Leave what? The arrow?” He snorted. “Legolas, I am _not_ leaving the arrow in your leg. Why in Elbereth’s name would you want such a thing?” 

Legolas scowled. 

Glorfindel rolled his eyes towards the snowy heavens and shook his head in exasperation, wondering what sort of daft reasoning the Elf followed. “Thranduilion, you are by far the oddest Elf I have known. And,” he added, “perhaps the most infuriating. I am not about to let you travel back to Mirkwood with an arrow protruding from your leg just so that your father may see it.” 

Midway through his sour jest, Glorfindel noticed the look on Legolas’ face suggested those were his exact intentions. 

Fortunately for Legolas, Orimhedil stepped out of the whirling snow, provision sack in hand. Gimli reluctantly followed him. 

“Master Gimli tells me you require—“ The Rivendell Elf furrowed his brow when he caught sight of Legolas’ injury. “I assumed someone was maimed by a Warg. Legolas, how did you manage to shoot yourself?” 

“I did not shoot myself,” Legolas snapped, straightening in indignation. Glorfindel quickly placed a hand on his shoulder and forced him to be still. 

Orimhedil knelt down beside the two Elves and began rummaging through his pack. “The arrow is not from the Wargs, for they cannot shoot and have no riders. Your arrows are the only ones fletched with green.” The dark-haired Elf started pointedly at Legolas. “Though I admit, you have managed skewer yourself at the strangest angle.” 

“It was that fool of a Dwarf who shot me!” 

“Legolas,” warned Glorfindel. 

Orimhedil’s hand paused midway between his pack and passing Glorfindel a roll of gauze. He turned to Gimli with raised eyebrows. “Son of Glóin, did you truly shoot the Prince of Mirkwood?” 

“I did not intend to shoot him,” Gimli quickly replied. Where were his father and Barin? He was feeling uncomfortably outnumbered, and doubted even Glorfindel would do much to protect him. The Elf lord seemed to have reached his limit, though he was keeping a remarkable pretense of serenity. “There was a Warg, and it was about to pounce.” 

Legolas glowered. “Then perhaps you should have shot the _Warg_ , Master Stub.” 

“I _tried_.” Gimli glared back as best he could. 

“Then what became of this Warg?” Orimhedil asked. Three pairs of bright Elven eyes turned to Gimli in curiosity, though two held an arguably murderous gleam. 

Gimli cleared his throat and wiped his frozen and running nose across the back of his hand. “Ahem, well, I believe it ran away.” 

“It ran away?” Orimhedil snorted in disbelief, his breath hanging momentarily in the cold air. Even Glorfindel looked somewhat skeptic. 

Legolas again adopted the tactic of being seen and not heard. After all, it is not wise to interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake. And the Dwarf was digging itself into a fine little hole as far as he was concerned. 

Gimli knew he sounded utterly ridiculous. Legolas could, of course, back the Dwarf’s claim, for he had witnessed the scene as well. However, the Elf seemed far more content to sit bleeding in the snow and watch as Gimli made a fool of himself. 

“It leapt at me, and as we fell backwards I accidentally loosed the arrow.” 

“It was then that he shot me,” Legolas helpfully supplied. 

Gimli paused before continuing, deciding he liked the Elf better unconscious. “When it saw that I had _accidentally_ —“ he made sure to glance at Legolas, “—shot the Elf, the Warg grew distressed and just left. I have no explanation for its actions.” 

Orimhedil shook his head and produced several leaves of athelas from a small leather pouch. Gimli might as well have told him the Warg sprouted wings and flew off to Rivendell. 

“Perhaps,” Glorfindel said slowly, “the beast was unsure if you were friend or foe, and instead chose to leave the situation.” 

Orimhedil’s head bobbed as he examined the arrow wound. “There is a grain of truth to that. In days past Dwarves often aligned with the darker powers.” 

Gimli bristled. “We did not ‘often’ join them. We were tricked or forced to join them.” 

“Yet you do not deny this fact.” Orimhedil gave the tender skin around the wound a gentle prod, eliciting a hiss from Legolas. “My apologies,” he murmured. Legolas offered him a wan grin. 

“You have twisted my words and those of history as well!” 

“Gimli,” said Glorfindel, “I believe it would be most beneficial if you sought out Barin and your father.” He bade Legolas bite down on a piece of his leather quiver strap and then tightly restrained the Mirkwood Elf by the shoulders. 

Gimli trundled off into the snow as Orimhedil simultaneously snapped the arrow in half and swiftly pulled it out. The Dwarf winced at Legolas’ muffled groan in spite of himself. 

* 

Escaping the prison of rock and ice proved to be less difficult than Glorfindel anticipated. Barin and Glóin piled the fallen Warg bodies atop one another, and the company was able to more or less climb out of their icy shelter. The horses, being of good Elvish quality, had not strayed far. 

It was put to a vote whether they should turn back or continue onward. In the end, it was decided they would press on to the High Pass. “We are too close to turn back,” Glóin had said. “And we are long overdue for a bit of good luck.” 

Glorfindel was of the opinion that Good Luck had fled to warmer and less hostile environments, but kept his thoughts to himself. 

* 

It was just after midday when the eastern scouting party at last reached the High Pass. Snow had ceased to fall, but the bitter winds howled and raged with such force that even the Elves were affected. An eerie scream was produced as it whistled between the peaks. At times the keening would grow so voice-like and high that the company was forced to stop their ears. The Elvish mounts grew skittish and fearful. 

A biting sun smiled coldly upon them, causing the frozen topmost layer of snow to sparkle like tiny shards of glass. Jagged black rocks seemed to absorb the sun’s rays and contrasted starkly with the white snow and stretches of blue sky. Great blackened cliffs rose steeply on either side of the group as they plodded forth. Odd rumbles coupled with unexpected avalanches left them tense and on edge. Too often would a large rock come barreling down the mountainside, seeming to bring half the cliff with it. “Giants,” Glóin said, his voice gone hoarse with nerves. “They find sport in tossing the rocks about.” 

Barin made a frightened gurgling sound and pulled the hood tighter around his beardless face. 

“Mayhap they will leave us be?” Orimhedil managed to keep his voice from shaking as he clung to his steed. The poor horse was in as bad a state as his rider. 

Legolas nodded and spoke with false bravado. “If they do not notice us we shall be fine.” The cold was causing his thigh to grow tight and cramped. Having to straddle the steed Mithlaf’s back pulled and tore at the wound. He was not sure he would be able to hang on if the horse moved any faster, and attempting to walk was simply out of the question. Oddly enough, his shoulder did not ache as before and he felt more awake as time went by. _‘I suppose whatever it was that ailed me has run its course,’_ he thought. Still, he could feel Glorfindel watching him as though he might topple over any minute. 

Telltale rumbles shook the cliffs on either side of them. The horses and Dwarves snorted in alarm. “Faster,” Glorfindel snapped, his face taut and grim. 

Legolas instinctively looked to the mountainside and immediately wished he hadn’t. Great clouds of snow hung suspended in the air. A deceptively slow wave of snow and rock began to build and ripple atop the cliffs. His cry of alarm mingled with Orimhedil’s. 

“FLY!” cried Glorfindel. “Fly quickly!” 

Elvish mounts squealed in terror as the ground began to quake. The three Dwarves floundered desperately in the snow. Orimhedil and Legolas each grabbed the Dwarf closest to them. It vaguely registered to Legolas that the writhing, cursing creature he held by the collar was Gimli. However, as the Elf’s primary concerns were to avoid being buried and stay atop Mithlaf, he could have cared less. 

The hooves of Mithlaf thrashed and tore through snow as the mountains toppled on either side. Legolas cried out as sharp pain stabbed through his injured leg. He clung to Mithlaf for dear life, terrified at the possibility of being buried alive. He still held Gimli by the collar, though the Dwarf was heavy as a boulder. Gimli flailed and choked, trying to avoid Mithlaf’s flinty hooves as the panicked horse lunged forward. 

They shot out of the Pass as though Morgoth himself snapped at their heels. The instant they cleared the canyon, Mithlaf stumbled and pitched forward, sending Gimli and Legolas tumbling into the snow. Legolas jerked aside as the body of Orimhedil landed next to him with a dull thump. 

The company lay gasping on the ground for several moments, each thanking the Valar he was still intact. 

Orimhedil rolled over with a slight moan. “Ai, we shall have a tale to tell when we reach Mirkwood.” 

“Or the Lonely Mountain,” added Barin with a grunt. 

Gimli sat up, massaging his throat. If he was never again able to draw a full breath of air, Legolas was solely to blame. 

The son of Gloin started in alarm when he noticed their company was short one Dwarf. 

“Father?” 

The only response was the distant rumble of falling rock. 

Legolas and Orimhedil quickly sat up and shot one another worried glances. 

“Glorfindel?” 

They were again greeted with silence. 

Orimhedil leapt to his feet and started back towards the avalanche. Gimli was immediately behind him. Legolas pushed himself up and limped after the two as best he could. Their dismayed cries reverberated throughout the mountains. 

_“Glorfindel? Glóin?”_

_“Father?”_

_“Glorfindel?”_

“BEAR!” 

At Barin’s shriek, Legolas, Orimhedil, and Gimli turned. 

A massive bear, the largest any had ever seen, was charging up the slope. The remaining members of the ragtag company immediately drew their weapons. _‘This cannot possibly get any worse,’_ Legolas thought wildly as he nocked an arrow. 

******* 

_I have some good news for those of you concerned over the well-being of Boromir (a.k.a. “Borofara,” or my personal favorite, “Boz,”): Aralanthiriel has graciously offered to care for him in his current state of need. He’ll be as good as new._


	26. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

**CHARACTER LIST:**

Grimbeorn- the Carrock 

_~ Western Scouting Party~_

Malbeorn- a veteran Ranger 

Rowgond- a young Ranger from Hollin 

Halbarad 

Aragorn 

Boromir 

_~ House of Oropher (living members) ~_

Lhûn- Thranduil’s eldest child. Heir of Mirkwood 

Calengaladh- Thranduil’s 2nd son 

Mallos- Thranduil’s 3rd son 

Tuilë- Thranduil’s 4th child. Daughter 

Legolas- Thranduil’s 5th child 

******* 

Yellow stars exploded before Boromir’s eyes as he writhed from the taut rope. He clawed feebly at the choking noose. It would not give. He frantically tried to draw a breath, but only succeeded in managing a panicked choke. 

The pain was excruciating. The rope burned like fire, sending tongues of pain up through his jaw. His eyes bulged from the pressure. 

The yellow stars exploded more intensely in a darkening green haze. Boromir felt his legs and arms jerk of their own accord. His fingers and toes clenched and unclenched as shock waves ripped through his body. 

Then the yellow stars fizzled out and the green haze faded to blissful darkness. 

* * * 

The Rangers swept through Fenadoch like a black tide, roaring with such fury even a Balrog would pause for thought. Cold mud sprayed from beneath the hooves of their galloping mounts. Townsfolk were bowled over left and right as the company battered them aside. 

“ELENDIL!” Aragorn sent a peasant man flying with a two-handed sweep of his sheathed blade. Enraged villagers swarmed from every angle, seeking to drag him from the saddle. Aragorn dealt them vicious blows amidst his cry of battle. 

“I am—“ _WHACK_ “—Aragorn! Son of—“ _THUD_ “—Arathorn! And am called Heir of—“ _CRUNCH_ “Elessar—“ _WHUMP, THUD_ “—the Elfstone!” _CRACK_ “Dúnadan—“ _grunt_ “—the heir of Isildur!” 

Charging recklessly at Aragorn’s side, sheathed sword whirling and fists flying, Halbarad began howling out a lineage of his own. Though the giddy rush of battle went to the man’s head, and he instead roared the ancestry of his horse between frenzied blows. 

“Rohdimm—“ _THUNK_ “—sired by Dimmor—“ _CHINK_ “—sired by Flaesûl!” 

Young Rowgond was completely carried away. He simply screamed the first sounds that sprang to his tongue, regardless of whether or not they were actual words. The stout blonde Ranger wielded his mace like a madman, swiping townsfolk off their feet with its bound iron handle. 

Malbeorn ducked before he was clipped by one of Rowgond’s wild swings. Growling, he wretched a shovel from an attacking old peddler and sent the man sprawling with a stirruped kick to the chest. 

They continued their furious charge through Fenadoch. Villagers fell back, not wanting to be cut down by the barreling Rangers and their iron-shod mounts. 

Aragorn was grateful the town housed no archers. His triumph, however, was short-lived. The resourceful people of Fenadoch, realizing they could not meet the Black Riders at close range, took to throwing all manner of debris. 

Malbeorn snarled as several rotten tomatoes and a soggy head of lettuce found their mark. Two more tomatoes hit his mount on the neck. The horse balked and squealed in protest. 

Halbarad shielded his face with an arm while the angered townsfolk pelted him with eggs. “For the love of Valar,” the man swore, “Those things HURT!” A well-placed egg cracked against the side of his head, splattering down his face. The Ranger yelped and lifted his arm higher, only to be hit by two more: one in the jaw and one on the collarbone. 

“The lousy fiends are throwing rocks!” Rowgond snarled and pitched forward as a stone hit him square between the shoulder blades. He twisted around with bared teeth, in the hopes of finding the slinger. An apple cracked him on the bridge of his nose. His steed sat back on its haunches and screamed as an apple smacked into the horse’s chest, emitting a hollow thump. 

Aragorn furiously tried to wipe the pitch from his face and succeeded only in smearing it. The town carpenter had managed to dump a bucket of warm tar on him from the rooftop. 

He cast a glance over his shoulder, intending to somehow charge back into the melee and cut Boromir from the gallows. 

The rope was already severed. Boromir had been rescued. 

With a cry of relief, cut short by a rock that bit into his shoulder, Aragorn let Roheryn take the lead. The horse thundered out of Fenadoch like a madbeast. 

* 

It was a bedraggled group of Rangers that met within the tangled ring of ash, oak, and thorn. They sat atop their mounts amidst dripping leaves and muddy earth, silently cursing every known thing in creation. Did the Valar purposely seek to punish them? 

Rotten tomato dripped from Malbeorn’s face. Bits of wilted lettuce clung to his short beard and cloak. He made no move to wipe it off, seeming content to send scathing glares in the direction of the others. 

Halbarad looked as though he had fought an army of snails and lost. Slimy egg yolk, only beginning to harden, covered him from head to toe. Angry welts were already forming where the eggs came into contact with his body. 

Rowgond’s nose was swollen to twice its normal size. The young Ranger could barely keep his eyes open. 

The sticky mass that was Aragorn found he was literally glued into the saddle. Even water would not wash away the pitch. Soap might have helped, but none of them carried it. 

The Heir of Isildur attempted to keep his voice as even as possible. “I assumed, as the rope was severed and Boromir no longer hanging from it, that one of you had cut him down.” 

“And _I_ assumed,” said Halbarad, his voice equally strained, “since you were charging out of that demon-filled town and Boromir was no longer hanging, _you_ had cut him down.” 

Aragorn angrily clenched Roheryn’s reins, only to discover himself unable to let them go. Now he was stuck to both saddle and reins. “Obviously, that was not the case.” 

“Obviously.” Halbarad seethed as he picked off pieces of eggshell from his sleeve. 

“If I do not have Boromir, and you do not have Boromir,” Aragorn could not prevent the anger from shaking his voice, “and neither Malbeorn nor Rowgond has Boromir… _Then where is he?”_ He felt like screaming, not to mention his fingers were itching to grab one of his companions by the throat. Halbarad’s throat in particular. 

Halbarad clenched his teeth. “Is it not the duty of our brave and fearless leader to know such things?” 

“I thing the person who camb up with the pland should doe zuch a thing.” Rowgond’s nose bobbled as he glared at Malbeorn. It took the others a few moments to decipher his stuffy accusation. 

The grizzled Ranger scowled. “No blame lies here for your incompetence! You cannot act with stealth, you cannot form a decent plan—“ he threw up his tomato-stained hands in disdain, “—you cannot even act when there is no plan!” Leaning over the shoulder of his greying horse, the veteran Ranger spat in disgust. 

“Pardon me,” said Halbarad, “but I would like to remind you all that I did have a plan.” 

“Id was a stooped pland!” 

Halbarad twisted viciously in the saddle, causing his steed to snort and stomp its forefoot. “And speaking of stupid, listen to yourself, Rowgond!” 

The blonde Ranger flushed angrily. “Ad leasd I do nod sbmell like rodden eggs. Even wid this doze I can sbmell you.” 

“Enough!” cried Aragorn. He unsuccessfully tried to free his hands from the reins. Roheryn grew confused by his rider’s tugs and sidestepped nervously. “This will not aide us in finding Boromir. I do not care who sounds worse or smells worse or looks worse.” It vaguely crossed his mind that he, covered as he was in sticky black pitch, must look terrible. “We MUST find Boromir.” 

“Indeed,” muttered Halbarad. “I, for one, am at a loss as to what we would say to Lord Elrond when explaining how we managed to lose a hanging man.” 

“We did not lose him,” Aragorn snapped. 

Malbeorn snorted. 

“We are back do where we sdarded.” Rowgond gingerly touched his plumb-sized nose. “Dow whad?” 

* * * 

Boromir arched his back and groaned. Where was he? 

Brittle, sweet-smelling sticks poked him all over. _‘Hay,’_ his mind identified. His eyes fluttered open and he groaned again. His neck felt as though… _‘As though I have been hanging from it.’_

It was difficult to see, for the only light in the place came from small tin lanterns, which hung from the rafters. Boromir squinted in the dim glow, concluding he was in some sort of stable. Silence draped over the building like a heavy velvet curtain—more soothing than unpleasant. The air was slightly damp and Boromir discovered himself somewhat chilled. Still, if being cold was the only thing he could complain about, his situation was much improved. 

Soft munching and muffled huffs reached his ears, indicating the presence of horses. Had he ended up in a Rohirric version of the Afterlife? _‘Nay,’_ he thought with a grimace, _‘if I were dead, I do not think my neck would be so sore.’ He_ reached up to touch the bruised flesh and was surprised when his hand instead met wet cloth. 

A lantern was flashed before his face. He winced at the unexpected light. “It is a poultice of dock leaves. They will help your circulation and reduce bruising.” 

The voice made Boromir’s stomach drop. He instinctively raised his hands to cover his nose, lest Mysian feel the need to punch him yet again. 

The tin lantern was moved away. Boromir warily eyed the serving maiden as she handed the lamp to toothless Thorad. She turned and knelt down next to him. Boromir recoiled. What did the cherub-faced witch have in store for him this time? 

* * * 

Mallos sat in the bare elm branches, one leg folded underneath him while the other dangled below. He jiggled his foot while nervously twirling an arrow between slender fingers. 

“Mallos, will you kindly cease? You are making me nervous.” 

The dark-haired son of Thranduil stilled his foot and looked up in the direction of the ill-tempered voice. Calengaladh’s icy grey eyes glared back at him. Mallos returned the arrow to its quiver and resignedly looked to the mountain trail. The small party of seven had been camped at the bottom of the Misty Mountains for a week. 

“Do you see anything?” he asked, despite the fact Calengaladh was a mere three branches above him. 

“Do you?” came the reply. Mallos remained silent. 

The two brothers had been born a mere twenty years apart, Calengaladh being the elder. They seldom traveled without each other, yet were different as birch and pine. Calengaladh’s ire was easily roused, and he had the propensity to lash out at those around him. Still, he possessed remarkable leadership qualities despite his quick temper and fiery tongue. Mallos often played the role of buffer between Calengaladh and the object of his wrath. Far more levelheaded than the rest of his siblings, Mirkwood’s third prince lent a calm and soothing presence to the notoriously rash House of Oropher. He was, however, occasionally prone to fits of nervousness. 

Calengaladh had inherited Thranduil’s golden locks whereas Mallos bore the same chestnut hair as their Silvan mother. Both possessed the Elven-king’s grey eyes, and had Mallos been slightly taller he could have easily passed as one of the Noldor. 

Thranduil’s dark-haired son pulled out another arrow and toyed with it, feeling the need to keep his hands busy. He could feel Calengaladh’s annoyance, but calmly ignored it. His brother was far too temperamental as it was. 

The two brothers waited in silence, staring bleakly at the same trail they had watched for days. 

Twenty or so woodsmen mulled on the ground beneath them, talking quietly amongst themselves in peculiar, clipped accents. “They speak as the chopping of axe against wood,” Girithron, one of the Mirkwood warriors, remarked when the two groups first met. 

“I cannot believe him,” Mallos finally exploded, snapping the arrow in two. “One must wonder if he truly seeks to test the limits of his immortality!” He threw the broken shaft in disgust. Several woodsmen eyed the trees warily before retreating to stand in small clusters. Necessity called for the two races to combine forces; neither made any effort to further the relationship. 

It was by mere chance the two parties came together. The woodsmen sought to halt raiding orcs and Wargs, and had sworn to protect the mountain paths lest any more of their kindred fall prey to Sauron’s minions. As the woodsmen and seven Mirkwood warriors shared a common enemy, it was far more practical for both groups to declare a hasty alliance with the other. 

Calengaladh mildly plucked at his bowstring while Mallos continued to rant. “One must wonder what possessed Legolas to send the escort back without him. Does he intend to journey back by himself? He is already in enough trouble as it is for sneaking off to Esgaroth when My Lord strictly forbade it.” Mallos swatted at a dead elm leaf in frustration. “Was that not why he was sent to deliver news of Gollum’s escape in the first place? Father hoped it would do him a bit of good to shoulder responsibility for a change.” 

“Nay,” answered Calengaladh with a dry chuckle, “The King was most likely hoping Legolas would have to face the wrath of Elrond for a change. I fear our younger brother has grown somewhat immune to Father’s ire this past decade.” The five other Mirkwood Elves in their party laughed softly in agreement. Mirkwood’s youngest prince had a special knack for driving Thranduil, and many others, to wits’ end. “Do not fret,” the golden-haired prince continued. “Lord Elrond would never allow Legolas to journey back by himself.” It secretly amused Calengaladh to see his soft-spoken brother so irate. Mallos possessed Thranduil’s volatile streak as they all did, but rarely did it surface. 

When the Mirkwood delegation returned minus one—and arguably its most important—member, Thranduil was livid. Then Taurmil, one of the king’s advisors and the Elf who acted as Legolas’ second, had related news of the Ring. One of the Pherianneth, the Elf said, not unlike Bilbo Baggins—famed elvellon and Burgler, had offered to take the ring to Fire. Taurmil supposed the hobbit would be accompanied by others, and it was rumored Lord Elrond wished for each Race to have a representative. 

Thranduil grew strangely silent at this news. Those present saw a momentary flicker of some unfamiliar emotion in his grey eyes, oddly reminiscent of fear, and his face took an unnatural pallor. He swiftly ordered Calengaladh and Mallos to take with them five Elves and await Legolas’ return at the base of the Misty Mountains. If Mirkwood’s youngest prince had not returned within three weeks, they were to travel to Imladris and fetch him. 

Lhûn later found the Elven-king passed out in his study, half a barrel of Dale wine at his side. It was then that Mallos began to worry: the wine of Dale was good for no other purpose than to drink oneself into oblivion. A year after the fall of Smaug the men of Dale, seeking to follow in the footsteps of their Dorwinian counterparts, attempted to brew a vintage of their own. Unfortunately, they knew nothing of the business. Fermentation, aging, specialty grapes, and which types of wood produced what flavors were utterly lost upon them. The resulting product was akin to drinking liquid fire. It was also strangely gritty and had a peculiar aftertaste not unlike swamp water (or so Legolas claimed—and as Calengaladh had once forced him to drink water from the marshes, no one argued). 

Thranduil had purchased five barrels out of politeness. Three were discreetly dumped into the Forest River; one had been liberated by Mirkwood’s Captain Daelir and was used for disciplinary means. The whereabouts of the last barrel were until that day unknown. 

“If some ill should befall him, Father will have our heads!” Mallos frowned at the worn mountain path and began twitching his foot again. 

“Correction, my dear brother,” Calengaladh smoothly replied. “He shall have _your_ head. Was it not you who helped convince the King he ought to send Legolas?” 

Mallos nodded glumly. He had argued in Legolas’ favor, feeling sympathetic for his younger brother. Following the death of the Queen, Thranduil was hard-pressed to let his children leave the realm. The oppression did not sit well with Legolas. Nonetheless, Thranduil was seldom swayed; the death of his wife had been the last straw. Already had he lost two children in earlier battles. He swore he would lose no more. 

There had been two before Lhûn: Orodil and Simbelmynë. Simbelmynë’s beauty and kindness was said to rival even that of Elbereth, and Orodil had been both fierce and fair to look upon. They were brave warriors, strong in body and soul. But both had perished in the Last Alliance. A healer, Simbelmynë was felled by an arrow to the throat when the Healers’ Tents were ambushed; Orodil met his end at Dagorlad. His body still lay trapped in the Dead Marshes with the rest of the fallen. 

Calengaladh and Mallos had been too young to fight, having cut their warrior’s teeth at Dol Guldur with the sons of Elrond. Neither had the heart to ask Thranduil or Lhûn exactly what befell their lost siblings. Tuilë and Legolas relied on the reverent whispers of those around them, as Tuilë barely remembered her older brother and sister and Legolas had never met them at all. 

“The Carrock returns.” Othon, a handsome Elf with hair the color of polished mahogany, stretched a long arm and pointed to the hills. It was well known the Silvan Elf was madly in love with Mirkwood’s princess, and she with him. Unfortunately, the fair warrior was terrified of Thranduil. He had yet to propose to Tuilë for fear of the Elven-king’s reaction. Calengaladh had informed him the previous evening that while Thranduil did hate him and would never think Othon good enough for his daughter, Othon had better propose soon. “Thirty years is a long time to carry on a love affair,” the golden-haired prince said. “Father grows impatient. It would be in your best interest to marry my sister before he _forces_ you to.” Calengaladh crossed his arms over his chest and shot the Elf a no-nonsense look. “And trust me, Othon. He will force you.” 

The poor archer grew quite pale and fled to the treetops, mumbling something about needing to re-wax his bowstring. “He does not hate you, Othon,” Mallos had called after the terrified Elf. “At least… Not as much as he first did!” 

The Elves sprang lightly to the ground and joined the woodsmen as Grimbeorn strode into camp. 

“What news have you, my friend?” asked Mallos. 

The large man paused to accept a water skin from one of the woodsmen. “There is a small company attempting the Pass.” He bit off the water skin’s cap and spit it into his hand. “Though I couldn’t tell you what sort of party they be. There were tall ones on horses and short ones in the snow—Dwarves I’m guessing. They must be traveling with a few Men.” He shrugged apologetically before lifting the skin to his lips and guzzling loudly. 

Disappointment flickered across Mallos’ face. “Then I suppose we can do naught but continue to wait.” 

Grimbeorn lowered the flask and popped the cap back on. “I’d understand if you Elves stay behind.” He tossed the water skin back to a woodsman. “But that company’s bound to run into trouble, if they haven’t already. The weather’s cruel and beasts roaming the mountains are even crueler. I promised Radagast I would watch over the Pass, and Grimbeorn keeps his word.” 

The woodsmen, having already sworn to keep the mountain trail safe as well, began gathering their supplies in preparation for departure. Calengaladh shifted the quiver across his shoulder and frowned at the mountains. Grey clouds brooded atop them, concealing their bare peaks from even elven eyes. _‘Snow,’_ the Elf thought darkly. _‘And quite a bit at that.’_ The seven Mirkwood warriors were already far from their lands, and he was reluctant to take them further. 

He could feel the eyes of the other Elves as they patiently awaited his decision. _‘What business of ours is it if Dwarves and Men become trapped on the mountain? None, none at all.’_ And yet, what if the Men had brothers awaiting their safe return? What if they were Men like Bard II? Calengaladh rather liked the man. The Elf sighed. _‘Ai, I shall regret this…’_

* 

“Listen to the mountains!” Grimbeorn put a paw to his mouth to shield his words from the howling wind. The Carrock had changed himself into bear form to better cope with the weather. 

A great crack echoed from the Pass above, sounding as though the mountain had split to the earth’s very core. Elves and woodsmen gripped their weapons and huddled together as clouds of snow and ice rained down on them. 

“Grimbeorn!” Calengaladh coughed as he took in a shockingly cold breath of air. “Grimbeorn! It is unwise to go any further! We must turn back.” 

“Aye,” shouted Ulyss, leader of the woodsmen. “We’ll all be buried! Whatever company attempted the Pass is probably crushed.” Several of his men, sniffling and raising arms to shield their faces from the arctic blast, cried out in agreement. 

Grimbeorn hefted a large chunk of snow at the uneasy group and roared with laughter. “Come, you thin-blooded creatures. A little snow never hurt anyone.” He shook flakes from his greying black fur and charged up the path, bellowing in delight. 

_“A lunatic, that one,”_ Othon muttered in his own tongue. _“Mad as the twisted trees rooted in these rocks.”_ The other Elves murmured in agreement. 

Calengaladh readjusted his quiver and set his jaw in determination. 

“Ai-oi!” Grimbeorn’s cry sounded strangely foreign as the wind whisked it down the rocky trail. “Found ‘em! Elves and Dwarves!” 


	27. Wrong Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

**CHARACTER LIST:**

Shadowfax 

Allin- 8 year old boy befriended by the hobbits. 

Atan LeRooj- Allin’s father. One of the chieftains of the highland village Pahtoh. 

Frodo 

Sam 

Pippin 

Erestor- Elrond’s chief advisor 

Bilbo 

Merry 

Elrond 

_~ Extra Special Thanks to the Goddess of Future Tense and All French Translations herself, Diana. You are a lifesaver! ~_

******* 

The bounding trees were surprisingly agile. Had Shadowfax been any less of a horse, he would have had much difficulty keeping up. Thankfully, he was not any less of a horse. He was King of the Mearas: superbly fit in every way possible. 

After all, when one is King of the Mearas, physical prowess and stamina are paramount. 

Shadowfax had always taken extra care of himself. He engaged in leisurely walks at dawn, every day, to ensure he stayed in peak condition. And besides, there was nothing quite like watching the silver stallion reach a hill’s zenith the very moment the sun broke through the night behind him. He fancied it made him appear as though he brought the sun to Middle-earth each morning. True, he did look downright gorgeous in the moonlight as well. But the sun just added an extra bit of sparkle to his coat. 

And then there were the mud rolls, which made his coat sleek as mink pelt, and kept circles from forming underneath his eyes. Of course, a brushing was also required. Only fine brushes made with elven hair were allowed to touch him, and the comb for his mane and tail must be of ivory oliphaunt tusk. Anything less would tug at his hair and break it. 

Oats were eaten but twice a week (they tended to be fattening), and he would only consume grass from the eastern face of hilltops (the sun hit this grass first and nothing distasteful drained down upon it like the sod at the bottom of the hill). Apples were to be delicately munched once a week. He had once eaten them three times a week and noticed, to his utter horror, an unsightly bulge of flab collecting around his shoulders. And hay… Well, hay was for stable horses. He was certainly not one of THOSE. 

Shadowfax was not, of course, vain. He was merely extremely conscious of his good looks. 

The bounding trees grew in number, until Shadowfax found himself in a small grassy clearing. Much to the stallion’s disappointment, the golden mist slowly receded into the trees and beyond. He was not nearly as magnificent without it, but no matter. He could not control all aspects of the weather. 

Flicking his tail in minor annoyance, the horse looked to the herd of bounding trees— _deer_ —he corrected himself, as they peacefully grazed across the slope. 

He proudly lifted his head and pranced towards them; pleased he stood out so well against the many drab brown coats. 

The deer ignored him. 

Rather insulted, the stallion snorted and began an impressive show of leaping. Let them ignore him now! 

Several does lifted their heads, liquid brown eyes regarding him with dull stares. Twitching their long ears, they continued to slowly chew their food, appearing quite nonplussed by the whole affair. 

Shadowfax stopped, nostrils and ears quivering with indignation. How _dare_ they ignore him so. He was King of the Mearas. They ought to bow their mule-shaped heads before him and offer thanks he had chosen to grace them with his presence. 

Apparently, the mule-faced deer not only looked like mules, but had the intelligence of the beasts as well. 

A small group of bucks, their shoulders and necks enlarged by the fall rutting season, were not pleased with Shadowfax’s intrusion. His incessant prancing and overwhelming need to be admired only made matters worse. 

The silver horse completed a pirouette and spun around to find five stags glaring at him. He lifted his head in disdain. It was not his fault they possessed less talent and grace than he. 

The males stomped their toed forefeet and snorted, shaking antlered heads side-to-side in a most threatening manner. 

Shadowfax wriggled his ears and whinnied in a pitch oddly akin to laughter. What could the measly spindle-legged, mule-faced deer, who barely reached his shoulder, do to him—King of the Mearas? 

He arched his muscled neck and strutted away from the disgruntled stags. Sunlight glinted off his polished hooves, making them shine like obsidian. 

By the Valar, he was gorgeous. 

Théoden had installed a full-length looking glass in his stall (a large compartment he only inhabited during storms—a little rain made his coat soft and shiny, but downpours only made him miserably wet). Shadowfax wished he had the mirror in front of him now. The Rohirric stable hands would probably be reduced to tears by his glory. Then Théoden would come before him, humbled and bearing armloads of hand-picked— 

_WHUMP!_

Shadowfax squealed in shock as he took an unexpected blow to the haunches. He whirled around with bared teeth, knowing his display of fury would strike utter terror into his enemy. 

_WHUMP!_

He had barely focused on the first deer when a second blow from the rear sent him staggering. 

_WHUMP! THUD!_ Two more antlered blows slammed into his body. This was not fair; they had ganged up on him! There was no honor to be found in such methods. 

Shadowfax lashed out with his hind legs, but his hooves met only air. The stags encircled him and continued their brutal assault. The mighty horse was pummeled and beaten into submission. 

The silver King of the Mearas laid back his ears and retreated as slowly as he dared. Emitting airy snorts of challenge, the bucks charged. 

Shadowfax dropped all pretense of dignity and fled. 

* 

The seething stallion halted a short while later when he came to a second clearing. He flattened his ears as he caught the lingering scent of the deer herd. So they liked to graze on this slope too, did they? 

Narrowing his eyes, he gave his tail a smug flick of satisfaction. The sweetest revenge would yet be his. 

And with that, the great Shadowfax set about eating as much of the grass in the clearing as he possibly could. Within three hours’ time, not a blade of grass remained, for Shadowfax had cropped the hill barren. 

Ten minutes later, an extremely bloated King of the Mearas was beset by an excruciating case of colic. 

The gluttonous stallion moaned as he stumbled blindly down the mountainside. He was going to die, that much was certain. And he was going to die a horrible death: sweating profusely while numerous antler-inflicted welts spread across his silver coat. 

At least none would witness his humiliating demise. 

* * * 

Wind blustered over the rolling highlands as autumn sun shone brightly upon the dull, close-cropped hills. Clouds stretched across the pale blue sky in feathered streaks, high above the earth. Sheep bleated and frolicked on the slopes under the watchful eye of sheepdog and shepherd. 

Nestled at the hill foot below, the village of Pahtoh burst with excitement. It was a celebration the hobbits would not soon forget. They were presented fine tunics of blue wool and adorned with crowns of dried thistle. A coal-colored plowhorse drew them down Pahtoh’s main path in a sturdy wagon. Bells sewn on the animal’s halter and reins jingled merrily with each step he took. Sensing his passengers were of great importance, the horse proudly lifted his feathered hooves (“They are hairy, as Mountain Elf feet!” Allin had gleefully pointed out) as he plodded along. 

Children screamed in delight and scrambled underfoot. A rustic group of musicians sent frenzied reels tumbling through the air. Whistles and flutes trilled, tambourines clashed, and the reverberation of pipes was felt to the very bones. Fair maidens laced ribbons through their unbound hair, laughing sweet as birdsong. Young village warriors jostled with each other and put on many a display of bravado, each with the hopes he might catch the eye of a desirable maiden. Young and old alike sang, danced, and cheered. 

Sam threw up his hands in embarrassment as a wrinkled old woman, her woad tattoos faded and hair a snowy white, cried out in rapture and pawed at his tunic. Eager hands reached for the hobbits from all directions, wishing to merely touch the revered Mountain Elves. 

Pippin steadied himself in the lurching wagon before leaning down to kiss an infant on the forehead. The child’s mother gushed proudly. Discovering he had kissed all the babies in Pahtoh, Pippin took to shaking the villagers’ hands with the utmost dignity. The townsfolk were enamored with him. 

The three hobbits were drawn to the village center, where they were ceremoniously ushered to a large dais set before many other wooden tables and benches. A great feast commenced; and though the people of Pahtoh were not wealthy, they certainly were not lacking in the arts of feast and merrymaking. There was mutton and barley stew, potatoes, cheeses, breads, tarts, mead… anything and everything the hobbits could ever wish for in an excellent meal. 

Many a speech was given and many a toast called forth in their name—or rather, in the name of the mythical “Lez Elves day Mohntahnyeh.” Though they had no idea what was being said of them, the hobbits nonetheless found the praise quite enjoyable. 

Pippin made move to join the dancers when the trio had finished their meal, but was stopped as Atan Le Rooj beckoned for them to remain seated. 

“I wonder what happens now,” the young hobbit said to his companions. Sam shrugged good-naturedly and turned to Frodo, who knew no more than he. 

Frodo seemed, in Sam’s opinion, rather miserable. The gardener could not help but notice how his friend’s eyes often grew distant and glazed, as though seeing something only he was able to view. Sam found himself becoming somewhat concerned, and made a mental note to interrogate Frodo as to what ailed him so during a more appropriate moment. 

The wiry, doubled form of an elderly man slowly came to stand before the dais. The crowd hushed in respect as he raised a shaking hand to silence them. “Who is he?” Pippin whispered. 

Sam furrowed his brow and scrutinized the old man. He leaned heavily upon a wooden staff, from which there hung a variety of small animal skulls and beads. The ancient one’s long hooded robes fairly swallowed him, so loosely did they hang from his gaunt form. As best Sam could guess, the man was some sort of village priest. 

The man opened his small, bird-like mouth and began speaking in an eerie singsong voice. “Vooz ehtay vehnoo kwand nooz avonz-oh behswahn deh votreh ahd.”* 

The crowd let out a raucous cheer. The ancient priest again signaled for silence. Frodo, Pippin, and Sam exchanged mystified glances. What was going on? 

“Voo teray le mayshant bet.”* The robed man pointed an arm that shook with age in the direction of the hilltops. “Allay voo, Lay Sacreh. Valoo protejay voo.”* 

He offered them a profound and wobbly bow before hobbling off into the crowd. 

The three hobbits suddenly found keen-bladed spears being pressed into their hands. 

Frodo shook his head and tried to signal to the woman offering him the weapon that he needed no such thing. “Sir Atan?” 

The bulky man beamed down at the hobbit. “Yes Frodohobbit?” 

“What is the meaning of this? I’m sorry, but we don’t quite understand.” 

“The Wise One has spoken,” said the village chieftain. 

“Yes,” interrupted Pippin, “but what did he say?” 

Atan bowed slightly. “He said you have been sent to us when we are most in need of your aid.” He lifted his head and smiled, pale blue eyes twinkling with excitement. “For it is you, Master L’Elf day Mohntahnyeh, that will rid our lands of the great Winged Beast.” 

“W-w-winged beast?” stammered Sam, his face draining of all color. “What Winged Beast?” 

Atan pointed to the hilltops as the priest had done. “The one that appeared on the day of your arrival.” 

A ragged gasp of terror escaped from Pippin’s lips. “Not the giant bird…You don’t mean the giant bird, do you?” 

Much to their dismay, Atan nodded. “Yes, the ‘giant bird,’ as you say.” He gave Pippin a hearty clap on the back. “Now! You go to slay the beast and bring great honor to Pahtoh in the name of your ancestors. Much luck do I wish you, Lay Sacreh.” 

The villagers parted before them and called many words of encouragement as the three hobbits slowly plodded from Pahtoh. There was simply no way to avoid it: Frodo, Sam, and Pippin were deities. And gods did not run from their sacred duties. Heads hung and feet dragging, the miserable trio headed off towards the hills to meet certain catastrophe. 

* 

A chilly wind, cold as death itself, bit at them as they trudged up the hills. At least, Sam imagined death must feel this cold. He would soon find out for himself. 

Pippin sniffled. “I’m sorry.” His voice wavered. “This is all my fault! If I hadn’t made them think we were Mountain Elves this never would have happened. We’re going to die because of me! I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry…” 

Frodo turned to the young Took with a sigh. Pippin’s face twisted as though on the verge of tears. “Pippin, if anyone is to blame, I think it would be me. None of us would be here if it weren’t for me. This is all _my_ fault. I’m the one who is sorry.” 

Frodo reached for the Ring and allowed his fist to wrap around it. Oh how he hated it! He hated it for the nightmares it brought, for the pain in his shoulder. He hated it for the Nazgûl. He hated it for causing the death of Merry, and for the deaths of those he knew would follow. Frodo clenched it tighter, his eyes filling with angry tears of frustration. If only his hatred and loathing could crush the Ring to dust. _‘I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!’_ He vehemently repeated the phrase to himself. 

Most of all, though, he hated it because there was a tiny part of him that didn’t. And it was a tiny part that kept growing bigger. 

Sam felt as though he should be crying. Pippin was crying. Frodo was crying—though he didn’t appear to realize he was. Therefore, it only made sense that he ought to cry too. Still, try as he might, Sam couldn’t shed a tear. There was something about it all that struck him as impractical. 

“It’s not your fault Pippin,” he finally spoke. “We were saved from the crebain because of your lucky Elven coin.” He furrowed his brow in thought. “And Frodo, this isn’t your fault either. Bilbo gave you the Ring—you never asked for it. And I don’t rightly think Bilbo is to blame either. He happened to find it because Gollum dropped it. In fact, if old Isildur had destroyed the Ring when he was supposed to, Gollum would have never found it.” 

The stouthearted gardener pursed his lips. “I guess, what it all comes down to, is that Sauron is the one to blame. If he hadn’t made the Ring in the first place, none of this would have happened.” He paused to heft the spear over his shoulder, unfamiliar with holding such a weapon. “So you see, it’s Sauron’s fault we’re marching off to face this giant bird. Yes sir, Sauron is the one who ought to be sorry.” 

Pippin tried to laugh at the gardener’s straightforward reasoning, though it came out as more of a choked sob. “When we get to Mordor, we’ll have to be sure and demand an apology from him.” 

Frodo hastily dashed tears from his eyes and gave his companions what he hoped to be a brave smile. He wondered for perhaps the thousandth time where he would be without them. He may be on his way to die, but he could think of no others he would rather die alongside. 

A shrill call, so sweetly powerful it chilled the soul, echoed over the land. An ominous black shadow fell across the hobbits as they reached the hill’s crest. They gripped their spears and grimly awaited the arrival of the massive bird. It cried again from the icy heights and circled above, its shadow growing ever larger as it slowly descended to earth. 

“Mister Frodo?” Sam pushed back his thistle crown and took a deep breath. “I think you should run.” 

Much to the gardener’s dismay, Frodo gave his head a resolute shake. “No Sam,” the hobbit replied, his face contracting in the tired fear of one who has finally accepted his fate. “I will not leave you.” 

The shadow loomed directly above them, blocking out the sun with its massive wingspan. The air grew even colder, if indeed such a thing were possible. Sam shuddered as the sound of wind over swiftly beating wings filled his ears. 

Pippin, his eyes wide with terror, could not tear his gaze from the approaching monstrosity. “Frodo,” he sounded almost pleading in nature. “Run.” 

“Two against one, Mister Frodo.” Sam’s face grew grim as he squinted into the sky. “And this isn’t about just us hobbits anymore. It’s a lot bigger than that. We’ve got everyone in Middle-earth to look out for, too.” 

“No, Sam. I refuse to leave you.” 

Sam whirled around to face Frodo, brandishing the spear at his surprised companion. “You’ll run right now, Mister Frodo!” he cried, eyes brimming with tears. “Or I’ll push you right down this mountain—so help me I will!” 

Frodo regarded the normally mild-tempered gardener with a mixture of shock and pride. Was this his Sam? 

“And I’ll help!” Pippin scowled in fierce determination. 

Their massive foe again cried out, provoking all three hobbits to action. Pippin and Sam held their spears aloft and answered the bird’s cry with defiant shouts of their own. 

Frodo’s body acted of its own accord. It turned and ran, carrying his passionately objecting mind with it. His feet stumbled several times, and more than once he cracked his knees or bruised his palms on the unyielding earth beneath him. 

The hobbit’s breath came in ragged gasps; a painful stitch stabbed at his side. Some morbid sense of curiosity forced Frodo to cast a glance over his shoulder. He wished he hadn’t. 

Sam and Pippin screamed as the giant beast captured them within its golden talons. 

For a brief moment, Frodo considered running back to his companions. He would be no better off than they, but at least they would all be together. The great bird, however, wasted no time in retreating back to the pale sky. The cries of Pippin and Sam grew ever distant as the winged monster swiftly bore them away. 

And then, all was silent. 

The sun dared to shine a little brighter and the wind remembered its drafty purpose. 

Frodo sat on the stubby grass in stunned horror. He was alone, save the company of two new and wholly unwelcome companions: Isolation and Despair. 

* * * 

Merry furrowed his brow and stuck out his tongue to the side of his mouth, so intent was he upon his drawings. Elrond had finally acquiesced and permitted him to leave the healer’s room. He was still unable to move about freely, as the cast on his leg tended to inhibit mobility. Still, it felt marvelous to be out of his confining room. Even if it only meant sitting on a well-cushioned sofa with his bad leg propped up in front of him. 

Merry lifted his head and paused to study shadows cast by the vase he was sketching. 

It was a newly discovered talent—one Merry found he enjoyed immensely. He had never imagined himself as possessing any artistic ability, and when Elrond had first presented him with the finely grained paper and slender pen, he did not know what to expect. The young hobbit wondered why the Elf lord hadn’t given him a simple puzzle or book to read instead. However, Elrond did seem to have a knack for revealing hidden talents in others. In the end, the Elf lord proved he had chosen appropriately yet again. 

“—And he had magic doors!” Bilbo’s excited voice echoed from the hallway. Merry craned his neck and leaned back on the sofa, wondering whom the old hobbit was speaking with. If Merry hadn’t been previously acquainted with the silence of Elven footfalls, he would have thought the elder hobbit was talking to himself. “—And they would close on you, if a body wasn’t careful,” Bilbo continued. 

“We had hoped you might provide us with some insights as to Mirkwood’s fighting techniques, Master Baggins,” came a slightly annoyed voice. “Enchanted rivers and magic doors are of no use to us.” 

Bilbo, followed by Lord Elrond and a slightly sour-looking Erestor, entered the room just as Merry recognized Erestor’s voice. 

“Merry, my boy!” Bilbo offered the younger hobbit a wide smile, effectively ignoring Erestor’s complaint. “And how fares the mending Brandybuck this day?” 

Merry smiled in return. “Well enough, Bilbo. Though I am rather hungry.” 

“What is this?” Completely forgetting Bilbo’s shun, Erestor bent down to examine Merry’s work. His eyes gleamed with a dangerous curiosity. 

“It’s just that vase,” Merry responded, gesturing to the vase and evasively attempting to cover the drawing with his good arm. Erestor promptly snatched the paper before the hobbit could hide it. 

“Nay,” said the Elf. “I speak of these sketches around the vase.” His lips twitched as though threatening to break into a smile. “Correct me if my eyes do deceive me, young Meriadoc, but I should say these sketches bear marvelous likeness to—“ 

“They are not,” Merry hastily interrupted. A telltale blush rose to his cheeks. 

Erestor discreetly coughed back a laugh. 

Elrond and Bilbo regarded the two expectantly. “Come now,” Bilbo protested as Erestor made move to return the parchment to Merry, “we wish to see as well.” 

Merry stifled a groan as Erestor passed his work to Elrond. The lord of Imladris studied the sketches a few moments before lifting his head and raising an eyebrow at the young hobbit. Merry began chewing at his fingernails. 

“Let me see!” Bilbo huffed with impatience and clambered atop a chair next to the two Elves. “You lot are far too tall for your own— _MERRY_!” 

Several doodles surrounded the sketch of the vase. They all seemed to revolve around the same theme: A dark-haired Elf meeting his demise by various means of torment. Here was one of the Elf being trapped underneath a fallen tree; there he was being chased by a giant troll. Perhaps most revealing was the sketch of the dark-haired Elf being forced to drink a bottle labeled “Poison,” while a suspiciously hobbit-like being poured it down his throat. 

“Perhaps, Master Brandybuck, you ought to concentrate on sketching vases.” 

Merry cringed under Elrond’s accusing stare. The Elf lord gave the drawing one last glance before handing the parchment back to him. “And now that I am reminded of it, I do believe it is time for your medicine.” 

* * * 

Arwen, balancing a tray of thin wafers and honeyed water, placed an affectionate kiss upon her father’s forehead. Elrond smiled and then waived his daughter off as she lightly set the tray upon the table between he and Erestor. “Be gone, child,” he said, pushing the silver tray aside. “We are far too pressed to bother with such indulgences. And have you not been taught to avoid disturbing me when the door of my study is closed?” 

“I bear tidings from your captains. And,” she looked poignantly to the two weary Elf lords, “I begin to grow concerned for your well-being. When was it you last dined?” 

Elrond absentmindedly reached for a wafer. “I believe I am the Healer, Daughter.” 

Arwen snorted, an unladylike sound usually attributed to her brothers. “Indeed. I happened to have the most interesting conversation with Fimbrethil in the healers’ quarters this morning. She was of the opinion the injured Pheriannath ought to have had his cast removed yesterday. Yet you insisted it remain.” 

Erestor looked up from the scroll in front of him, a slightly bemused expression playing across his face. 

Elrond reached for a second wafer. “As I said: I believe I am the Healer. And I will not have young Meriadoc wandering about my grounds unsupervised. I fear he would attempt to locate his lost companions. Nay, I know he would.” 

A momentary flash of brilliance led Erestor to suggest Elrond try a more standard method of imprisonment: perhaps ball and chain? He immediately quelled any further propositions under the Elf lord’s dark gaze. 

Arwen allowed herself a gentle chuckle. Very few could claim the honor of running her father ragged, and usually the offenders came in pairs. Elladan and Elrohir were masters of this feat, though Aragorn and Legolas formed an impressive duo as well. Recalling there was a second young hobbit whom had journeyed to Rivendell—Pellegrin, or Peregrin, was it?—Arwen could not help but wonder what sort of mischief a pairing of that nature might incur. Gandalf would certainly have his work cut out for him, that much was certain. 

Erestor cried out in frustrated disgust and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. “This is folly! No _civilized_ Eldar use Mirkwood’s ridiculous defence tactics. Enchanted rivers, magic doors, disappearing fires…” The dark-haired advisor delicately curled his lip in disdain. “Such primitive magicks are but relics of early days when Elf-kind knew only of tree or star and little else.” 

The fact that Thranduil’s realm remained potent despite constant assault from the Enemy, or that Galadriel’s fair Lothlórien was literally a fused entity of Ring and ancient spell, was utterly beside the point. 

“Mayhap we might offer a plea of mercy to the rushing waters of the Bruinen? Or shall we place gentle kisses upon each tree of the Misty Mountains, that they might severe themselves and smite our enemies with their heavy trunks?”  


Elrond finished his fifth wafer, knowing well it was pointless to argue over the matter. “Are you quite done yet, Erestor?” 

Arwen twisted the satiny folds of her dress in embarrassment. Erestor’s Wood-Elf rants always left her feeling uncomfortable. From what Elladan had confided to her, Erestor’s anger stemmed from the loss of his brother, whom had fought under Oropher during the Last Alliance. It was out of devotion to some Elf-maiden that he had joined the Greenwood forces. Erestor was convinced his brother would have been spared had he not done so. 

Erestor folded his arms over his chest and sighed deeply. “Quite.” 

Elrond bobbed his head in acknowledgement before turning to Arwen. “Then let us move on. You spoke of bearing news from the captains, Daughter?” 

“Yes, my Lord.” Arwen brushed an errant strand of dark hair from her face. “Our border guards have been doubled, as you requested, though our enemy has not shown himself as of yet. Oh, and,” her smooth brow furrowed in slight puzzlement, “Captain Amacil reports one of your horses missing.” 

Elrond blinked. “One of my horses,” he repeated. “Which?” 

“The copper mare you are so fond of.” 

“Valaithe?” Elrond frowned, taking mental note of all those whom might be in need of a mount. He was positive none of the departed scouts had taken her. 

“Horses!” Erestor’s cry of triumph startled both Elves. “Of course! We have horses!” His dark eyes shone as he laughed in delight. 

Elrond regarded his advisor with raised eyebrows, deciding the Elf’s fevered excitement far too reminiscent of an over-taxed mind that had finally snapped. “Calm yourself, Erestor.” He reached for another wafer and could not help but feel a stab of disappointment upon discovering he had eaten them all. 

Erestor pushed back his chair and rose to his feet in one fluid motion. “Summon Meneldor the Eagle. Greater plans have come before this, but so have worse…” 

******* 

FUN WITH FRENCH: 

_“Vooz ehtay vehnoo kwand nooz avonz-oh behswahn deh votreh ahd.”_ \-- Vous êtes venus quand nous avons eu besoin de votre aide.’ [You came when we needed your help.] 

_“Lez Elves day Mohntahnyeh.”_ \--‘Les elves des montagne.’ i.e. ‘Mountain Elves’ 

_“Voo tooray le Mayshant Bet.”_ \--‘Vous tuerez le méchant bête.’ [You will kill the Evil Beast.] 

_“Allay voo, Lay Sacreh. Valoo protejay voo.”_ \--‘Allez vous, Les Sacré. Valar protégez vous.’ [Go, Sacred Ones. Valar protect you.] 


	28. Off of the Mountain and Into the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

__**A/N** :  
*moan* I can’t believe I did this, but I guess in honor of Valentine’s Day and as my very belated birthday present to you, Ithilien. . .

_*uuuugh* I am already slapping myself upside the head for this one. Merciful Tolkien, please forgive me._

_And stop grinning, Ithilien. I can see it from here._

CHARACTER LIST:

Mysian- barmaid at the Singing Mûmak, accidentally kidnapped by Boromir and Aragorn 

Grimbeorn- The Carrock (he can change from man to bear form). Son of Beorn, a prolific figure in ‘The Hobbit’ 

_~ Eastern Scouting Party Members ~_

Barin- Dwarf from the Lonely Mountain 

Orimhedil- Elf warrior from Rivendell 

Glorfindel 

Glóin 

Gimli 

Legolas 

_~ Others ~_

Calengaladh- Mirkwood group commander. Thranduil’s 2nd son 

Mallos- Thranduil’s 3rd son 

Othon- Mirkwood archer. 

******* 

Powdered snow parted before the charging bear like sea foam. Mentally sizing up the massive foe, Legolas concluded it would take far more than a single arrow to even slow the beast—much less slay it. He and Orimhedil possessed but four arrows between them. 

He pulled back his bowstring, wincing as the movement aggravated his injured shoulder. _‘I fear we shall meet a most painful end.’_ Perhaps they would be able to slow the bear, but it would still tear them to pieces once they were within range of its paws. Axes, knives, and even swords would be useless. 

_‘And its minions follow close behind!’_ Legolas’ heart sank. He had no desire to be taken hostage, knowing all too well what tortures would follow. He hoped the bear would show no mercy. 

And yet…The Elf squinted, daring his eyes to betray him. He felt a tug of recognition at the sight of a golden-haired figure sprinting near the head of the charging party. Legolas’ heart skipped a beat. 

“Calengaladh?” 

The golden-haired figure waved an arm in reply. A dark-haired Elf at his side, whom Legolas immediately recognized as Mallos, cupped a hand to his mouth and called back. 

“Legolas!” 

Legolas breathed a ragged sigh of relief. He heard Orimhedil’s breath catch as the Rivendell Elf recognized their pursuers as friends. “Calengaladh! Mallos!” Never mind he was acting like an overexcited elfling. “Over here!” 

Calengaladh’s sharp reply immediately deflated him. “Of course you are over there! Now lower your weapons before you shoot someone.” 

“Let none accuse you of lacking tact, dear brother,” Mallos dryly remarked. Calengaladh shot him a look of warning, but let the comment slide. His primary concern rested with Legolas at the moment. 

Legolas hastily bade the others to lower their weapons. All did so, with the exception of Gimli—who was not about to take orders from the son of Thranduil. Not to mention lowering one’s axe in the face of an oncoming bear charge struck him as downright stupid. 

He was rather surprised when the great bear blew past them, leaving a whirlwind of glittering snow in his wake. The Carrock made straight for the giant pile obstructing the Pass and began digging like a madbeast. Gimli tossed aside his axe and made move to join the Carrock in his efforts. He still did not trust the bear, but as it had made no move to harm them as of yet, perhaps it was not a creature of Sauron. 

_‘And should the beast even think of devouring Father, he shall first have to pass through me.’_

Gimli snarled as a chunk of snow, dislodged by Grimbeorn’s paws, flew into his chest and knocked him flat. 

Before Legolas could join in the rescue of Glorfindel and Glóin, he found himself wrapped in Mallos’ heartfelt embrace. He returned it, squirming slightly as his brother unknowingly pressed his sore shoulder. 

Mallos heaved a sigh of relief. “We have been greatly worried. It gladdens my heart to see you.” 

Grimbeorn’s roaring laugher tumbled over the cliffs. “Look what the mountain spit up! An Elf and a Dwarf!” He promptly seized Glorfindel by the collar of his tunic, grinning as the coughing and greatly disoriented Elf lord swore and attempted to fight him off. 

Mallos drew back and held Legolas at arm’s length, a smile of relief shining upon his fair face. 

Calengaladh stepped forth and gave his youngest brother a stiff pat on the back. His grey eyes took a decidedly icy turn as he took note of Legolas’ appearance. Legolas cringed inwardly. 

Mallos’ smile melted into a frown. “Legolas, there are burns upon your face. And your eyebrows…” 

“Perhaps you slept too near the campfire?” Calengaladh leaned forward and made move to take his youngest brother’s chin between his hands. Legolas narrowed his eyes and jerked back his head, hobbling as his weight shifted onto his injured leg. 

Mallos’ eyes widened. “What,” he quietly demanded, “have you done to your leg?” 

Legolas drew himself upright and squared his shoulders. “I was shot.” His face darkened as he recalled the incident. “By the—“ He paused, suddenly envisioning his brothers’ reaction should he admit to have been shot with his own bow and arrow. And by a Dwarf, no less. Eternity would first end before they allowed him to forget it. 

And what would Thranduil say? 

“By the what?” Calengaladh impatiently cocked his head to one side and raised a golden eyebrow. 

Legolas sighed. Saving face took priority over revenge—for now. “By a Warg rider.” Curse the Dwarf for making him speak lies. “We were attacked just before reaching the Pass, and one of the arrows found its mark.” 

Mallos’ jaw tightened in disapproval. “Before you enter the High Pass, you say? I have no doubt your ride through only served to anger the wound. Sit, and I shall tend to it.” His eyes darted to Legolas’ shoulder. “As well as the one on your shoulder.” 

“Nay,” replied Legolas with a shake of his head, “I need no tending to. I am well enough at present, thank you.” 

Calengaladh’s face darkened into a scowl. “Sit. Or I will make you do so.” His tone brooked no argument. It was Legolas’ fault they had been camped at the mountain foot for two miserable weeks; indulging in soothing the bruised ego of his baby brother was dead last on Calengaladh’s list of priorities. 

“I shall not sit.” Legolas folded his arms across his chest and lifted his chin, an act that never failed to draw Calengaladh’s ire. “I am hale, and have no wish to sit upon wet snow.” 

Fire glinted in Calengaladh’s eyes. He too folded his arms across his chest. 

Mallos released a frustrated sigh. He wished Thranduil had sent Lhûn upon this errand instead of Calengaladh. At least Legolas obeyed Lhûn. 

Between Calengaladh’s incessant need to prove his leadership abilities, and Legolas’ obsession to prove himself a capable warrior, the two could not help but engage in futile power struggles. Mallos didn’t understand it in the least; he supposed it had something to do with his brothers’ birth order. Calengaladh’s leadership capabilities were renowned, and Legolas had demonstrated his battle prowess on more than one occasion. Still, Calengaladh would ever be the son just below Mirkwood’s Heir, and Legolas would ever be the youngest child. 

Mallos was secretly thankful for his position as middle child. Though it was somewhat irksome to be constantly overlooked, he had to admit his quiet nature also contributed to the fact. And at least he did not possess the ridiculous complexes of his siblings. 

“Unhand me at once, Calengaladh!” 

Calengaladh had a secure grip on Legolas’ forearm, and looked as though considering whether or not to kick the younger Elf’s feet out from under him. Legolas glowered, only years of proper etiquette keeping him from forcefully wrenching his arm away. 

Mallos decided it wise to intervene, lest tempers burned out of control and the two made spectacles of themselves. He loudly cleared his throat, steeling himself for the simultaneous glares he knew would be quick to follow. 

“What?” the two snapped in unison. 

Thranduil’s third son furrowed his brow, fighting down his own rising irritation. _‘One day I shall not be here to watch over them; then what damages would they inflict upon each other?’_

He chose his words carefully. “Calengaladh, I am sure Grimbeorn and the Woodsmen chief will require your counsel in regards to our company’s next course of action. And you, Legolas,” he turned to the defiant younger Elf, expression schooled with years of practiced serenity. “We cannot have your injuries hampering our descent. Please, do not make yourself a burden to the rest of us.” 

* 

Grimbeorn carried the disgruntled Elven lord in his teeth, much as a hound transporting her pup. Glorfindel groaned as he was roughly deposited on the ground. Sitting upright proved most difficult. Why must earth spin so quickly? 

“You’ve got a nasty head wound,” said the talking bear. “Don’t move.” Its pearly fangs gleamed dangerously. Glorfindel closed his eyes and willed himself not to be ill. 

…Talking bear? 

He opened his eyes, groaning as sunlight reflected off snow with blinding white intensity. His stomach somersaulted. The bear was conversing with a man—or was it three men? As Glorfindel’s vision kept doubling and tripling, it was impossible to tell. And since when had bears and men been on speaking terms? 

The bear transformed into a man before his very eyes. Glorfindel balled his fists in the snow, attempting to grasp some reality. He was a methodical thinker, priding himself on logical thought. Unfortunately, any logic appeared to have been left buried in the avalanche. He gritted his teeth as the ground begin to tip. Or was that him? Well, no matter. One of them was about to fall over. 

“Steady yourself, my Lord. You are in the presence of friends.” Gentle yet firm hands grasped him by the shoulders. Glorfindel immediately recognized the Silvan inflections of the voice and placed it as that of a Mirkwood native. “Legolas?” He turned to the Elf in dazed confusion, growing even more disturbed when an unfamiliar face looked back at him. Thranduil’s folk were on the mountain. Why? 

Where was the rest of his company? Had they been buried as well? 

“Be at ease, Lord Glorfindel.” The strange Elf restrained him as he lurched forward. “The others are safe.” 

The golden-haired Elf lord closed his eyes in concentration and licked his lips. Speaking in full sentences was going to require a bit of concentration. “Where… Where happened the… Mirkwood… bear? 

There was an awkward pause. The captain of Imladris could feel the other’s scrutinizing stare. Glorfindel didn’t blame the Elf. How four individual questions became lumped into one even he was at a loss to say. 

The Mirkwood Elf lifted a hand from Glorfindel’s shoulder. “My lord? How many fingers do I hold before you?” 

Glorfindel sighed in resignation. “Two,” he replied, not even bothering to open his eyes. 

The Mirkwood Elf Othon started, peering first at Glorfindel and then at the two fingers he held forth. Amazing. “How did you—“ 

Glorfindel grimaced and gingerly rubbed his aching head. “Because… because they always hold up two fingers when… have been…hit on head.” 

* * * 

“I am unsure whether or not his refusal to ride alongside us was insulting.” To those who did not know Mirkwood’s second prince, Calengaladh’s face and stiff posture indicated skillfully restrained anger. Mallos, however, was well-acquainted with the nature of his brother. The mischievous gleam in the other’s eyes was not lost upon him. 

“Indeed,” answered the dark-haired prince, guiding his steed around a rocky outcrop. “And I suppose your suggestion he ride with both legs to the side in the manner of a gowned maiden had nothing to do with his shun?” 

Calengaladh scowled, not quite managing to cover up his smirk in the process. “I merely spoke out of concern for his injured leg.” 

Ignoring Mallos’ exasperated sigh, Calengaladh allowed his gaze to slide forward and rest on Legolas. The younger Elf was riding alongside Othon and a rather dazed Glorfindel. Judging from the redness of Othon’s face, and the barely perceptible smile on Legolas’ lips, Legolas had probably asked the archer if he had proposed to Tuilë yet. 

Calengaladh was secretly as relieved as Mallos by Legolas’ return. For all his antagonism towards the younger Elf, an aggressive protectiveness lie beneath it. Legolas’ injuries irked him. Only _he_ was allowed to torment his brother. All others were severely punished should they even touch a single hair on Legolas’ head. 

Unfortunately, Legolas had never been one to thrive under the protection of his betters. _‘And in doing so,’_ Calengaladh mused, _‘he only makes a greater mess of things.’_

“What make you of those Naugrim?” Mallos quietly asked. 

“Hmm?” Calengaladh, startled from his revere, blinked and turned to his brother. Mallos was watching the three Dwarves somewhat pensively. 

Calengaladh snorted and curled his lip in disdain. “They are Dwarves, what more is there to make?” He frowned as the eldest Dwarf shook a fist at the mountain peaks and bellowed something about surviving giants who topple every mountain in Arda. “Though it does appear someone attempted to roast them. Not,” he added in afterthought, “that I find any fault with the idea.” 

A smile tugged at the corner of Mallos’ mouth in spite of himself, and several snickers were emitted from the Elven members of their party who were within hearing distance. 

Any inquiries as to what had transpired to leave the scouting party in such a singed state had been brushed aside. Granted, Legolas and Orimhedil were the only two Calengaladh had questioned; Glorfindel could barely remember his own name, and speaking to a Dwarf about any subject was preposterous. 

Calengaladh shifted his weight back as his steed began to descend a particularly steep dip in the trail. “Of course,” he muttered, more to himself than to Mallos, “it would be only Legolas who receives injury at the hands of the Warg riders. And in such a peculiar spot. Mayhap the arrow was intended for a Dwarf, and the creature ducked.” 

“If it is as Legolas says,” Mallos responded dismissively, grey eyes scanning the approaching autumn-draped forest. 

Calengaladh turned to the dark-haired Elf with raised eyebrows. “Why would it not be?” 

Mallos remained silent for a few moments, pretending not to notice his brother’s growing impatience. “Do you recall the arrow I took to the shoulder, several seasons ago?” 

Calengaladh’s face darkened at the memory. “Yes. As I recall, Legolas and that ridiculous Dúnadan—“ 

“—The arrow was barbed and filthy,” Mallos smoothly interrupted, “as all weapons of the Enemy tend to be.” 

Calengaladh frowned. “That is understandable. Why do you speak of it now?” 

“Legolas’ wound was clean, and the tissue not torn in the manner of a barbed arrow.” 

Calengaladh was rendered thoughtfully silent, an event Mallos decided noteworthy in its own right. 

“I think,” the golden-haired Elf finally spoke, “we shall have to have a talk with our precious Gift of Sauron.”* 

* * * 

Mysian rocked back on her heels and sighed. “You should be on your feet shortly. Old Niram’s poultice is marvelous stuff.” She lifted the damp cloth. “You are extremely lucky the fall did not snap your neck.” 

“Did you—why—how—?” Boromir’s voice rasped painfully. His mind reeled in confusion, yet remained as dim and muted as the Fenadoch stables. What was she doing? 

Mysian sniffed. “Yes I cut you down. I do not know who you truly are, Borofara. But I do not think you one of the Nazgûl.” 

“Perhaps you might have mentioned this _before_ I was hung?” 

The pretty maiden shrugged, her skirts rustling in the straw. “I was angry with you. You had no right to kiss me.” She scowled. “Did it ever occur to you I may be betrothed, or that my heart belongs to another?” 

Boromir suddenly felt immensely ashamed of himself. He should not have kissed her. Such actions were lewd and far below his code of conduct. And if Mysian was already claimed by another… 

But was it not she whom began flirting with him in the tavern? Now it was Boromir’s turn to scowl. “Have you already given your heart to another? As I recall, you seemed quite interested in me while my friends and I dined.” 

“That is beside the point,” the maiden snapped, a rosy blush spreading across her cheeks. Her green eyes glinted dangerously in the dim lantern light. Boromir again raised his hands to protect his nose. 

Where on Middle-earth was the irresistible Steward of Gondor Charm when he needed it? Perhaps he had lost it in Rivendell. His shoulder twitched at the thought. Boromir growled. Thankfully, Mysian did not notice. 

“Thorald has gone to fetch some of your things,” said the maiden. “I released your horse some time ago; if it is an intelligent beast it will undoubtedly find its way back to you.” She rose to her feet, brushing away the pale yellow straw clinging to her skirts. “In the meantime, you may ride old Nelav. She is not much, but she will deliver you from the village without suspicion.” 

Looking at the horse in question, Boromir decided “not much” was an understatement. The old nag was sway-backed with droopy lips and pink-rimmed eyes. Boromir was not sure if ugly was an actual color, but found it did quite fit the molted creature before him. He could hear the mare breathing, and did not doubt any attempt to escape at speeds greater than that of a walk would prove disastrous. 

Boromir blinked. Wait a minute, what had Mysian said? “Pardon me, my lady. You are going to free me?” 

Mysian tried to look as though the matter held little importance. “Well… yes.” 

Boromir gaped. He could not believe his ears. “Even though we kidnapped you?” 

Mysian furrowed her brow and nodded. 

“And burned down the tavern?” 

The maiden fidgeted with her braid and nodded once again. 

“Despite the fact you believe us to be the Black Riders? Destroyers of the Last Bridge? Harbingers of evil and—“ 

“Do not make me regret my decision,” the fair maiden snapped, blushing furiously. 

“Yes, Milady.” 

An awkward silence settled between the two. 

Mysian’s eyes darted furtively about the stable, flitting past everything but Boromir. She shuffled her boots in the brittle straw. 

Boromir adjusted his belt and sniffed. 

A horse nickered and swished its tail in some far-off stall. 

The silence stretched longer. 

‘ _Charm of Gondor, charm of Gondor, charm of Gondor,’_ Boromir repeated furiously. Valar this was embarrassing. He could almost hear his heart beating. 

The silence threatened to suffocate. 

Borormir cleared his throat, the unexpected noise causing Mysian to jump. A barn cat, one paw flicking in annoyance as though it had accidentally stepped into a puddle, paused its stalking and glared at the man before resuming the hunt. 

“So,” he began tentatively. “You, ah, serve at the Singing Mûmak?” Of course she did, but at this point he was willing to say just about anything if it would end the silence. 

Mysian nodded vigorously, apparently as glad of the break as Boromir. “Yes. Well, I used to serve at the tavern. Before it was burned down.” She mentally kicked herself as Boromir cringed. 

“Yes… That had… That had momentarily slipped my mind.” 

_‘Especially considering you are partially responsible for its demise,’_ Boromir’s mind felt gleefully compelled to remind him. He almost wished she would punch him again. 

His mind raced for any topic. “Ah, how did the ‘Singing Mûmak come by such a name?” Still on the tavern, but slightly veered away from the topic of fires. Boromir supposed it would do for the time being. 

Mysian responded with gusto, leading Boromir to believe he may have struck the correct nerve for a change. “Actually, it is a deviation from the tavern’s original name: ‘Spring and Music.’ It was known for its spring-drawn baths and a favorite place of rest for traveling minstrels. In days past, when most could not read, word of the tavern was spread by mouth. The ‘Spring and Music’ eventually became jumbled to the ‘Singing Mûmak,’ and the name has remained ever since.” 

“Truly?” asked Boromir, slightly intrigued. 

Mysian shook her head in affirmation. “Oh yes. It is a quite common occurrence. I know of a tavern named ‘The Hog’s Head,’ and its original title was ‘Board and Bed.’” 

“Indeed,” Boromir mused, stroking his chin. He could not help but wonder if the same sort of thing happened to people. Many years from now would he be known as the Great Bormadeer or some title of that nature? _‘With my luck,’_ he concluded, _‘it shall most likely be Borofara.’_

The initial flood of conversation ebbed once more. Heavy silence draped over the stable yet again. 

_‘Do not look at him. Do not look at him…’_ Mysian glanced at Boromir. He had a rather noble chin. And intelligent grey eyes. They probably crinkled when he smiled. 

His eyes met hers and he gave her a lopsided smile. The corners of his eyes crinkled. 

_‘Oh help,’_ she thought, stomach fluttering. 

Somewhere between his admiring glances of the rosy cheeked, green-eyed maiden with the thick braid of honeyed hair, and the realization they were alone, Boromir’s Charm of Gondor returned in full-fledged chivalry. 

And one serving maiden of the former Singing Mûmak, upon suddenly finding herself wrapped within two very capable arms and an equally capable mouth, decided perhaps Borofara would not end up on the receiving end of her fist, after all. 

******* 

_“Gift of Sauron.” --Legolas’ endearing nickname from his brothers._

_Fear not, Halbarad lovers! The noble and benevolent PuterPatty has kindly offered to care for him between chapters. He too, following in the footsteps of Legolas, Boromir, and Glorfindel, has found a good home. :)_


	29. The First of Many Partings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

CHARACTER LIST

Grimbeorn- the Carrock (can change from man to bear) 

Barin- Dwarf from the Lonely Mountain 

Orimhedil- Elf warrior from Rivendell 

Glóin- father of Gimli 

Glorfindel 

Legolas 

Gimli 

Calengaladh- Thranduil’s second (living) son. Commander of the Mirkwood party. 

Mallos- Thranduil’s third (living) son 

Othon- Mirkwood archer 

Lhûn- Heir of Mirkwood. Thranduil’s eldest living child. 

_~Western Scouting Party~_

Malbeorn- veteran Ranger 

Rowgond- young Ranger from Hollin 

Halbarad- Aragorn’s longtime pal 

Aragorn 

Boromir 

******* 

Winter gradually relinquished its grasp as the eastern scouting party and their large entourage descended the Misty Mountains. Jagged ice-covered rocks and wind-blasted shrubs gave way to forested hills, still flaunting colors of the waning autumn. 

They were harassed very little; though whether this was due to chance none could say. 

When at last they reached the swiftly flowing Anduin, the group was surprised to find a second party bathing in the river’s icy waters. Fordun, first captain under Grimbeorn and of the same gigantic stature as his commander, was first to greet them. 

Unfortunately, the Carrock’s captain bore only ill news. A party of orcs had attacked the Old Ford further downstream, attempting to drive out the Beornings guarding its bridge. The Enemy’s numbers had been sufficient enough to draw Fordun and his followers down from their watch over the High Pass. 

Upon hearing the eastern scouting party’s tale, the massive captain of Grimbeorn apologized profusely. “I had my suspicions over why they attacked the bridge,” said Fordun, his face growing shadowed. “And now it looks like it really was to divert our attention from the Pass. Orcs are on the western side of the mountains, you say?” He angrily shook his head. “I bet my spear they went over the High Pass while we were gone. Ugh.” His giant hand curled into a fist. “They’re springing up like weeds—for every one we kill there’s five more hiding under the next rock.” 

Pressed as they all were, there was little time for small talk. Exchanging swift farewells, Fordun and his Beornings began their bleak trek up the mountain path. 

News of the Ford attack was particularly upsetting to Grimbeorn. “I tire of dealing with this,” the Carrock grumbled, his gait taking a decidedly bearish lumber. He loped ahead of the company as they reached the outermost fringes of Mirkwood, brow darkening while even darker thoughts flitted across his mind. The parties gave him wide berth, for none were so foolish as to pester an angered Grimbeorn. 

When they entered the forest, Legolas could not ever recall a time he had been so happy to be among the trees. Stately oaks and towering elms opened their branches in welcome, remaining autumn leaves rustling soothing murmurs to the wearied parties. Far more leaves littered the forest floor, and they crunched pleasantly underfoot. The Elf closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The scent of bark, leaf, and earth was invigorating. It rushed through him like wine in the veins. Weeks of tension lifted and disappeared under the wide eaves. 

Feeling himself surprisingly giddy—for no reason other than the fact he wasn’t in danger of being chased, buried, or shot at for the first time in days, Legolas began humming softly under his breath. The trees felt different than those of Thranduil’s realm, but it was still Mirkwood. 

Calengaladh’s clear voice soon joined his, and the rest of the Mirkwood Elves followed suit. Even Mallos lifted his voice in song, offering Legolas a slight smile before tilting his head to the boughs overhead. 

Calengaladh and Mallos had, of course, quietly taken their youngest brother aside at the first available opportunity. It had been a memorable discussion. Legolas adamantly refused to tell of the eastern scouting party’s woes. Only after a particularly persuasive threat from Calengaladh did he admit “the Dwarf” was responsible for his injury, but would go into no further detail. This led to an abridged—and rather biased—recount of the pond incident, followed by Gimli’s insult against the Mirkwood queen. 

Calengaladh would have put an end to Gimli right then had Legolas not dove straight into the pipeweed disaster. 

To his utter surprise, it was gentle Mallos—not Calengaladh—who promptly cuffed his ear, exclaiming, “You ought to thank the stars half of the mountain was not blown up with you!” 

Calengaladh did his best to keep his cool demeanor intact, but in the end was reduced to choking fits when Legolas described how the Dwarves had run about howling with their beards aflame. 

The fact that he, Orimhedil, and Glorfindel had reacted in a similar manner was conveniently forgotten. 

The large company trekked past clover-filled bee pastures; through tall and ancient oaks, which caused the Elves and Woodsmen to murmur in appreciation. They bypassed a thick thorn hedge, which was impenetrable even to the keen eyes of the Elves. At last, Grimbeorn halted them in front of a creaky wooden gate. A wide track on the opposite side led to various low buildings, including a wooden house with two long wings. 

There was a cheerful whinny as Grimbeorn unlatched the gate. Two sleek horses followed by a fat pony trotted towards the group. Grimbeorn smiled and called out to them before striding jauntily towards his house, not even pausing to cast a backwards glance at his companions. 

The remaining company stood awkwardly at the gate, unsure of whether or not they ought to follow. Gimli drew his thick eyebrows together, wondering if it was his imagination or one of Grimbeorn’s horses was actually staring at him. The de-bearded Barin whimpered and pulled his makeshift mask a little tighter around his head as the two horses observed him curiously and laughed. Or, at least, it sounded as though they were laughing. 

Legolas shot Calengaladh a questioning glance. His brother was staring after Grimbeorn, a slight frown gracing his fair features. Legolas knew Calengaladh thought the Carrock’s behavior somewhat rude, for he was beginning to hold a similar opinion. Was Grimbeorn inviting them to his home, or were they being asked to leave? There was certain protocol one must follow when in the presence of guests, and Grimbeorn was displaying the social tact of a rock. 

Glóin solved the dilemma by hoisting his axe over one shoulder and marching after the Carrock. “Come Gimli, Barin.” 

Gimli and Barin followed, leather jerkins and chain mail squeaking and clinking as they walked down the track. The faces of Legolas, Calengaladh, and Mallos all bore similar looks of disgust. 

The Woodsmen came directly behind the Dwarves, though somewhat reluctantly. 

Ten very perplexed and affronted Elves were left standing at the gate, horses milling impatiently underneath them. They could either invite themselves into Grimbeorn’s dwelling—which was extremely rude, or depart—which was also extremely rude if Grimbeorn indeed wished them to enter his house. 

Calengaladh scowled and muttered something under his breath about mortals and lack of etiquette. 

“Lord Glorfindel?” Legolas turned to the Imladris captain. “You are more experienced in the customs of mortals than we.” 

Glorfindel rubbed his sore head, realizing the others viewed him as the outstanding authority figure in this situation. Even Calengaladh, who normally refused to relinquish power, was awaiting his decision. Thranduil had always been particularly strict in terms of proper etiquette, and Calengaladh was too well-bred to risk social faux pas. 

“I believe,” the Elf lord slowly replied, “Grimbeorn intended us to follow him.” 

Readjusting his quiver strap, Calengaladh gave a non-committal shrug and sprang from his steed. The rest dismounted as well, relieving their horses of any further duties. The fleet-footed animals happily trotted off to join the horses of Grimbeorn. 

Grimbeorn had already set a fine meal upon the table when the Elves entered the western-most hall. Glóin and Grimbeorn, who appeared to be have bonded over the Dwarf’s acquaintance with Grimbeorn’s father Beorn, were jovially recounting some tale of a Great Goblin. The Dwarves and Woodsmen indulged their stomachs with nuts, jarred fruit, loaves of bread covered in honeyed butter and cream, and warm cakes. Judging from the cakes’ smell, and the numerous earthen pots of honey lining the shelves, Legolas supposed the cakes were of a honey flavoring as well. He sniffed appreciatively. It had been a while since his last decent meal. 

Though not fond of closed spaces, Legolas found Grimbeorn’s home fairly comfortable. The entire building was constructed of wood, and a large oak trunk served well as a makeshift table. A large fire sizzled and popped in the center of the hall, its flames warding off the coming night’s chill. A large hole in the roof released excess smoke, though the ceiling was charred black nonetheless. 

Glorfindel and Orimhedil gracefully took seats and helped themselves to loaves of bread and honey. The Mirkwood Elves reluctantly set aside their bows (both the Dwarves and Woodsmen having discarded their weapons), and joined the company. It was not unnoticed by Legolas that Calengaladh did not remove the dagger about his waist. 

Gimli watched the Mirkwood Elves from out of the corner of his eye. They sat ramrod straight and silent, not even attempting to converse with those around them. _‘Arrogant tree coddlers,’_ he thought in annoyance. Apparently Grimbeorn’s food was not up to their aristocratic tastes. 

Mallos openly blanched when he realized the entire table was drinking from two water bowls. Disgusting. He would die of thirst before drinking from something that touched the lips of a Dwarf. 

He closed his eyes when his stomach threatened to rebel at the sight of one of the Dwarves guzzling loudly, followed by a hearty belch. Elbereth only knew how much the creatures backwashed. 

Legolas and Othon, both too polite to comment on the Dwarf’s lack of table manners, simply made quiet sounds of distress. Calengaladh looked positively revolted. When Ulyss, leader of the Woodsmen, offered him a drinking dish, the golden-haired prince handled it as though he had been passed an orc head. 

Much was discussed around the roaring fire in Grimbeorn’s wide hall that night. It was agreed that a further alliance must be forged between the Woodsmen and Mirkwood Elves to combat the Enemy’s growing threat. The Beornings, led by Grimbeorn, would continue to keep the High Pass open at all costs. The Woodsmen also offered their aid. 

The Dwarves lodged a complaint or two against the tolls they were charged when journeying through the High Pass to reach the Council of Rivendell, claiming, “at all costs” really just ought to be a figure of speech. All in all, talks went fairly well. 

That was, until they discussed the next day’s plans. 

The Woodsmen would head out, and Calengaladh promised an emissary from Thranduil would meet with them at an appointed spot. Barin and Glóin were eager to return to the Lonely Mountain. The Elves of Mirkwood wished to return to their halls as well. 

Gimli suddenly found himself the odd Dwarf out. 

There was not enough time for him to journey to the Lonely Mountain, and the Woodsmen encampments were also too far. Grimbeorn flatly refused to let him stay anywhere near the Carrock. “My father wasn’t particularly fond of company, and neither am I,” the large man said, though not unkindly. “You lot are my guests for the year. I’ll not have you leading any more orcs or Wargs onto my land.” 

“Then where am I to go?” Gimli asked. 

“We shall take the Elf-path through Mirkwood,” Glorfindel replied. “That way you will not have to separate from Barin and your father until we reach the Halls of Thranduil.” 

Gimli looked somewhat skeptical. “And then what?” 

“You may stay with the rest of us in King Thranduil’s palace.” 

“He certainly may not,” Legolas snapped. 

“I certainly will not,” Gimli replied in the same breath. Dealing with one son of Thranduil was bad enough. He had no intention of dealing with a whole palace full of the prissy fiends—especially the Elven-king himself. 

“The returning party will remain together,” Glorfindel stated firmly. “And we would reside in the palace three days at most.” 

Calengaladh lifted his chin and glared challengingly at Glorfindel. The captain of Imladris resisted the urge to groan. “Naugrim do _not_ walk the Halls of King Thranduil, Lord Glorfindel. We are not Imladris.” 

“I am not going to Thranduil’s palace,” Gimli loudly informed the group. 

Legolas haughtily glared at him. “We did not invite you.” 

“Silence, both of you,” Glorfindel ordered, one hand raised in warning. 

“The Naugrim will not set foot within my father’s halls.” Calengaladh’s words rang with a note of finality, which Glorfindel promptly ignored. 

“I shall personally watch over Master Gimli, Prince Calengaladh. I doubt your father’s realm too small to accommodate a single Dwarf.” 

Calengaladh’s eyes flashed. Mallos placed a restraining hand on his brother’s forearm. “I am sure,” the dark-haired prince sweetly replied, nibbling the edge of a honey cake, “our guest would find the dungeons particularly spacious.” 

At mention of the dungeons, Glóin bolted to his feet with amazing speed for an old Dwarf, and informed Mallos the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain would fell every tree in Mirkwood were Gimli even brought within sight of a cell. 

“I dearly wish to see how my archers fare against an invading rabble of Dwarves,” came Calengaladh’s icy retort. 

Barin leapt to his feet, overturning a drinking bowl in the process. “Hah! The steel of Dwarven axes could outlast your puny arrows any day.” 

The archer Othon snorted in disdain. “Save your energies for the growth of a real beard, Stubling.” 

Barin turned several shades of red before exploding. “A beard! Grow a beard? I had a perfectly nice beard until you imbecile princeling decided to burn it off!” 

Legolas, who had been busy glaring silent threats of death unto Gimli, turned his wrath upon Barin. “For the last time, Dwarf—it was not I who burnt off your beard. But it is a pity your tongue was not burnt off as well!” 

“I ought to have aimed that arrow at your head,” Gimli roared, pounding his fists on the table. 

“Yes,” snarled Legolas, “And in doing so mayhap you would have instead shot the Warg.” 

Glorfindel propped his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands. Shouting broke out on either side of him like a thunderstorm. He had hoped to keep what occurred during their mission between scouting party members. Obviously, this was no longer an option. 

He looked bleakly to the Woodsmen, who were attempting to exit Grimbeorn’s dwelling as discreetly—and swiftly—as possible. Grimbeorn, on the other hand, was leaning back in his chair sipping a cup of tea. 

_‘Do something,’_ Glorfindel silently mouthed. _‘Please!’_

Grimbeorn gave him a curt nod and set down his cup. 

His roar shook the house to its very rafters. The ensuing silence was deafening. 

Glorfindel sighed in relief. He was a veteran of many campaigns; none of them had been this ridiculous. “Now, as I was saying—“  
”The Dwarves may follow us along the Elf-path,” Mallos interrupted, jaw tightening in disdain, “but your Dwarf shall journey on and stay in one of the outer settlements of Lake-town.” 

Glorfindel slowly nodded, deciding not to point out Gimli was not ‘his’ Dwarf. Thranduil had the habit of dropping subtle insults as well; Glorfindel had witnessed Elrond deal with the Elven-king far too many times to allow himself be baited. “I believe that is fair enough. What say you, Gimli?” 

Gimli grunted. He was positive he had seen a dagger in Calengaladh’s hands only moments earlier. That the Elf was capable of concealing a weapon so quickly unnerved him. “I have no desire to go to the Elven-king’s halls. I will be more than happy to reside elsewhere.” 

“Good,” said Glorfindel. “Then it is settled.” 

Grimbeorn, who had resumed drinking his tea, emptied the cup and smacked his lips. “I’ll lend you three ponies to hasten the journey through Mirkwood.” 

Barin was not particularly fond of ponies. Neither was Gimli for that matter. Ponies were occasionally used to pull carts, but rarely did the Dwarves actually ride them. 

“The forest is still dangerous,” said Grimbeorn. “Even magic of the good Wood-Elves can’t hold off all creatures.” 

“Yes,” said Calengaladh with ill-concealed contempt, “it would be a shame if they were picked off by a spider.” 

“Or an archer,” Legolas muttered. 

* 

Gimli lay quietly upon his blanket, Barin and Glóin snoring heartily on either side of him. He watched the three Elves sitting across the fire from beneath hooded eyelids. They were busy constructing new arrows, talking so softly he could not hear them. 

Gimli had never seen Elves make arrows, and found it to be an odd undertaking indeed. They would take a shaft, make a single minute shaving with a knife, and then hold the shaft eye-level. The Elf would then rotate the shaft, frowning, and take one or two more tiny shreds from the stick. This continued for some time. Gimli highly doubted the removal of five splinters made much difference in the arrow, but the Elves seemed to think so. 

The Elf would then select three feathers to fletch the shaft with. These were carefully smoothed—several times over—and, Gimli noted with disgust, color coordinated. 

Several minutes were spent placing the feathers in exactly the right position. Curiously enough, Gimli couldn’t tell any difference from the initial placement of the feathers to the last adjustment. The feathers were then secured to the shaft with some sort of resin coating. The resin was always brushed on the same number of times, in the same direction, at the same place. 

Then came the arrowhead. It had to be perfectly shaped, perfectly sharpened, perfectly placed, and perfectly bound with sinew. After this was completed, the Elf would carve runes along the shaft. As far as Gimli was concerned, this completely defeated the purpose of wasting so much time whittling it in the first place. 

He blinked as his eyes began to close. Were all Elves this neurotic, or was it just the sons of Thranduil? Deciding he really didn’t care, the Dwarf rolled over and allowed his snoring kin and the crackling fire to lull him asleep. 

Legolas frowned as he examined the arrow shaft. He pulled out his knife and painstakingly shaved off a thin sliver. “Mallos, have you any dark green feathers? I seem to be one short.” 

“Why not use the lighter green?” Mallos squinted as he readjusted his feathers. 

“I already have. And I cannot fletch an arrow with two light and one dark. The light feather must be on the top, and flanked by two dark.” 

“Check my pack, *Ant es Sauron,” said Calengaladh. 

Legolas reached for the pack, scowling. “Please stop calling me that.” 

Calengaladh merely smiled and began to twirl an arrow shaft between slender fingers. 

“Why do you look at me so?” Thranduil’s youngest son was immediately alarmed. Calengaladh’s grin suggested he knew something Legolas didn’t. Such instances rarely played out to the youngest prince’s favor. 

Mallos raised a dark eyebrow at the two. 

“I again wish to know how you received that arrow wound.” 

Legolas flushed crimson to the very tips of his ears. “Lord Glorfindel said we were to no longer speak of it.” 

Calengaladh snorted. “And since when are you under command of Glorfindel?” 

“Calengaladh.” Mallos gave his brother a gentle shove of warning. “If Legolas does not wish to speak of his embarrassment, then let it pass.” His grey eyes twinkled mischievously. “Besides, I am sure we shall render him sufficiently drunk at the Winter Solstice Festival to coax the story from him.” 

“I do _not_ get drunk,” Legolas hotly declared. “Only when you two set about to make me.” Much to his chagrin, Mallos and Calengaladh dissolved into helpless fits of smothered laughter. He felt his face burn an even deeper shade of red. 

“You are far too uptight with the maidens for your own good,” Mallos managed between snickers. “And anyways, it is Lhûn, not Calengaladh and I, who ought to be held responsible for last year. Though we were all of the opinion it was for the best.” 

“Indeed.” Calengaladh brushed tiny wood shavings from his tunic front. “And your ‘display of bravado’ certainly attracted a few choice maidens that eve…” He grinned. “Not to mention the rest of the kingdom.” 

Legolas glared at them both, hoping to look even remotely like an angered Thranduil. Othon, who was supposedly sleeping, giggled. 

“Then it is well I shall not be present for this year’s festival.” 

The heads of Mallos and Calengaladh immediately snapped up. 

“And where is it you intend to be?” Calengaladh asked. 

Legolas toyed with the finished arrow in his hand. “Lord Elrond has named me one of nine walkers. We shall accompany the hobbit Ringbearer…” He trailed off uncomfortably. His two brothers continued to stare dumbly. Mallos appeared positively stricken. 

It suddenly occurred to Legolas that, in all likelihood, the news would not go over well with Thranduil. 

* * * 

The Rangers busied themselves licking their wounds and plotting any and all means of rescuing Boromir. It did not help matters that nobody knew where Boromir was. However, the Dúnedain were a resourceful bunch, and now they drew from the very dregs of their wisdom and cunning. 

“You certainly cannot disguise yourself as a woman with that nose.” Halbarad brought up the dress for the umpteenth time. He was convinced it would have worked, and made sure the others were aware of it. 

Rowgond, plumb-sized nose the color of a molted tomato, responded with a rather rude gesture. 

Luckily, the offensive signal went unnoticed by Halbarad, who was far too busy staring at Malbeorn. A huge piece of rotten cabbage was plastered to the old Ranger’s forehead. Malbeorn had done nothing but seethe for the past few hours—not even bothering to clean himself. 

Halbarad chewed on his bottom lip. He was itching to pick the leaf off. Surely it must be causing the grizzled man some annoyance. It was practically driving him mad. 

“Aragorn looks like an orc,” he continued, eyes still on the rotted cabbage, “and Malbeorn and I would be smelled before we even reached the main road.” 

His annoyance at the leaf finally won over. Reaching tentatively towards Malbeorn, he made move to pluck the cabbage from the man’s forehead. Malbeorn growled and slapped Halbarad’s hand, wiping the leaf away with his own. Halbarad shook his stinging hand and scowled, though somewhat thankful Malbeorn hadn’t bitten it off. 

Aragorn, who had been standing with his arms outstretched like a scarecrow while the tar dried, tottered over to his saddle pack and grabbed his water skin. He was sticking to everything. His clothes were unbearably stiff. And Halbarad was right—he did resemble an orc. Dried blackened pitch covered his entire body. His hair stuck out at odd angles, and clumps of unmixed goo distorted his features. 

He dumped water over his blackened hands yet again, knowing full well the tar wouldn’t wash away. His skin felt burned and raw. He gritted his teeth and futilely scrubbed his hands. “We must do something.” 

“ _Really?”_ asked Halbarad, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Perhaps we could simply ask the kindly villagers to hand him over.” 

“Are you volunteering, my friend?” Aragorn somehow managed to make “friend” sound insulting. He flexed his tar-covered fingers and groaned in disgust. 

“Whud if we just breedend he dever eggsisted?” 

Aragorn sighed. “Rowgond, I think it may be a bit difficult to convince everyone else there never was a Boromir.” 

“Perhaps not.” Halbarad smirked. “After all, he has disappeared…” 

“Doh,” said Rowgond through his blocked nose. “He is righd dere.” 

Following Rowgond’s arm, the Rangers were shocked to see the son of Denethor casually riding towards their encampment. 

“Well met, Dúnedain.” Boromir cheerfully dismounted the nag, looking for all the world as though he had just returned from a leisurely ride. His wounds had been tended to—both those he had actually suffered and those he had invented. (Mysian had not objected in the least.) 

“Great seasons Aragorn! What has happened to you all?” He wrinkled his nose as he caught a whiff of Halbarad. 

The four Rangers stood stock-still, mouths agape. Even Malbeorn was caught off guard. 

The dumbstruck expression on Aragorn’s face made him appear even more orc-like. “Boromir? How—?” 

Boromir grinned. Aragorn thought the man looked decidedly smug. Evidently, Halbarad was of the same opinion. The lean Ranger crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the man of Gondor. They had just spent the better part of the week fighting off a whole town of Sauron protégés for Boromir’s sake, and he had the audacity not only to free himself, but to return in better condition than any of them as well. 

Boromir, far too pleased with himself and thoughts of a certain bar maiden, merely continued grinning. A cry of delight escaped his lips when he noticed his horse approaching cautiously from the trees. Releasing the nag with a smart slap on the rump, he strode over to the stallion. His jaunty whistle nearly set all four Rangers upon him then and there. 

Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed. 

Aragorn allowed Halbarad and Rowgond to throw only a few well-placed acorns at the man. One rock found its way into the fray, though Halbarad innocently claimed he mistook it for a nut. 

* * * 

The sun had already begun to slip into the west when the company parted ways. Malbeorn, Rowgond, and Halbarad were to continue westward, veering slightly to the south to join their fellow Rangers in Tharbad. Boromir and Aragorn were to turn back to Rivendell. 

Rowgond shivered in the cold damp wind and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He watched the two men, dark figures against the smoky shadows of evening, as they receded into the distance. “Strange,” the young Ranger murmured, a perplexed look gracing his open features. “I do nod thing I shall eber see himb again.” 

“Never see whom again?” Halbarad paused and glanced up from the buckle he was tugging at. 

Rowgond remained thoughtfully silent for a moment. “Boromir.” He shrugged, shaking his head and emitting a dismissive laugh. “Comb. I subose we shud be on our way dow.” 

Malbeorn, silent as ever, paused at the edge of the grove. There was a momentary flicker of sadness in the grey eyes, fleeting as the last orange rays of sunset. 

_“Farewell, Boromir son of Denethor. May your soul know peace and honor.”_ His softly spoken words were swallowed by the cold wind and shivering leaves. 

He sighed. This was the first farewell. There would be many more to follow. 

“Malbeorn! Come, we have tarried long enough!” 

The grizzled Ranger slowly stirred at Halbarad’s call. The sun slid beneath the horizon, and darkness blanketed the land. 

The old Ranger shivered, suddenly feeling the sun would not truly rise again for a very long time. 

******* 

_“Ant es Sauron”- Gift of Sauron. Kudos to erunyauve for the translation!_

_A round of applause to Thundera Tiger, generous soul she is, who has opened her home to our beleaguered Dwarves: Gimli and Glóin._


	30. This is the House that Oropher Built

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

__**A/N** :  
I think this may be the longest chapter yet (whew!). I apologize in advance if it drags a bit. It’s more plot-setting than anything else. Couple random points of interest: I re-read the Dwarves’ trek from Grimbeorn’s house to Thranduil’s halls in ‘The Hobbit.’ I think it took them roughly 2 weeks. I’m assuming our Elves pushed for a much faster clip, thereby cutting the journey’s time to about half that.

_Things are still a bit moody, but hopefully not too dark._

CHARACTER LIST (ready?) 

_~ Eastern Scouting Party ~_

Orimhedil- Rivendell Elf warrior 

Barin- Dwarf from the Lonely Mountain 

Glóin- Gimli’s dad 

Glorfindel, Gimli, and Legolas 

_~ Mirkwood Elves of Importance ~_

Othon- Archer with group under command of Legolas’ brother. Smitten with Mirkwood’s princess. 

Daelir- Captain of Mirkwood’s archers. His party is part of Mirkwood’s border patrols. 

_~ The House of Oropher ~_

Lhûn- Crown Prince of Mirkwood. Thranduil’s eldest son. 

Calengaladh- Thranduil’s 2nd son. In command of group sent to fetch Legolas. 

Mallos- Thranduil’s 3rd son. Also present in group sent to fetch Legolas. 

Tuilë- Princess of Mirkwood, Thranduil’s 4th child. Equally smitten with the archer Othon. 

Legolas- youngest child of Thranduil 

Thranduil- The Elven-king himself. Ta-da! 

******* 

Morning broke dull and weary as the eastern scouting party and their Wood-Elf companions bid Grimbeorn a gracious farewell. Thick mist lounged sullenly over the land, yet the group headed north towards the forest gate at a dead gallop. 

Gimli and Barin, who had never ridden ponies, were completely miserable. Grimly they clung to the animals, pitching and sliding with every stride. How the beasts were controlled with reins—which were really nothing more than thin pieces of rope—was beyond Gimli. 

And then there were the Mirkwood Elves, who rode with no reins whatsoever. They were showing off, of this Gimli was positive. He was also positive the newest song they delighted in singing was some mockery of Dwarven riding abilities. But, as it was sung in the Wood-Elves’ own peculiar Silvan dialect, he could make neither heads nor tails of it. Glorfindel would occasionally furrow his brow in suspicion, but even he could not decipher the words. 

Gimli made up his mind never again would he ride a horse. _‘I would rather climb a tree,’_ he thought, wincing as his teeth jarred together and gave him the beginnings of a headache. He felt as though he was being rattled to bits. 

Thankfully, Glorfindel had enough sense to suggest the reins of Gimli and Barin’s ponies be tied to the tack of either his or Glóin’s steed. The elder Dwarf was a surprisingly competent rider, and actually seemed to enjoy riding. Then again, he did have previous experience with the sort. 

* 

On the dawn of the second day, the group reached the forest gate. Great, gnarled trees silently awaited their entrance. Eyeing the twisted boughs and vines of darkened ivy, which hung to the forest floor like leafy entrails, Gimli decided he liked Mirkwood even less than the forest outside Rivendell. And he had not even entered these woods yet. 

Their journey down the winding Elf-path lasted four very nerve-wracking days. The forest was dim even at high noon, and blacker than pitch at night. The Mirkwood Elves, led by Calengaladh, appeared wholly unaffected by the gloom and muffled stillness. To the more astute observer, however, the Wood-Elves’ manner belied an intense alertness. While they did not jump at every black squirrel or immediately reach for their weapons at every strange noise (as did the Dwarves, Glorfindel, and Orimhedil), they nonetheless kept sharp observation on the surrounding woods. 

The archer Othon and a second Elf were designated runners, disappearing down the narrow, meandering trail for prolonged periods and then returning to report their findings to Calengaladh. The Elves would occasionally shoot beasts that ventured too close to the path. This would have been fine except they—Calengaladh, Legolas, and Mallos in particular—gave no warning before their shots. 

Glóin’s heart nearly stopped the first time Calengaladh spun and loosed an arrow directly over his head. Gimli and Barin were so shocked they forgot to hold on and fell from their ponies. 

Calengaladh coolly stalked past them and yanked the arrow from the writhing spider, its legs curling into itself as it stiffened and died. 

Legolas seemed to take special joy in attempting to shock Gimli from the seat of his pony. This ended when Glorfindel rather angrily asked if the spiders would actually attack them. Mallos admitted their large group was in little danger, thus ending any further spider slaying. 

* 

On noon of the fifth day, Calengaladh called the company to a halt. “We draw near the King’s halls,” he said. “The Dwarves may go no further.” 

Lifting his head, he let out a sharp whistle. Gimli suddenly realized the birdsong he had heard over the past few days did not belong to the birds. 

A large party of Wood-Elves materialized from the surrounding ashes and pines. Their bows and spears were held lax, though they regarded the Dwarves in suspicion. 

“My lords.” Mirkwood’s captain Daelir bowed low before them. “A star shines on the hour of our meeting.” His silvery eyes widened slightly at the appearances of Legolas, Glorfindel, and Orimhedil. 

Legolas sat up a little straighter and defiantly lifted his chin. Orimhedil flushed and attempted to smooth back his burnt locks. Glorfindel, deciding now as good a time as any to practice the calm patience he knew would be needed over the next few days, quietly met the captain’s gaze. 

Daelir quickly averted his eyes at Calengaladh’s impatient cough. “My lords,” the wiry Elf repeated. “The Crown Prince awaits your arrival.” 

“Where is the King?” Calengaladh demanded, immediately dispatching of any further formalities. Thranduil usually sent Lhûn upon errands outside his realm. 

“Our scattered relations in the hills and mountains flee the Enemy. Many seek refuge in the King’s halls,” the captain replied, his dull tone suggesting he had explained this very thing to countless others. “His Majesty is personally overseeing the arrangements. He is expected to return later this evening.” 

Legolas felt the uncomfortable tightening in his stomach relent, his anxiety over meeting Thranduil slightly eased. Of course it would be better to immediately get the whole ordeal over with, but none would hear him complain over a few extra hours of freedom. 

“I shall lead the Dwarves towards the Lake-town settlement,” said Glorfindel. “When proper housing arrangements are finalized for Gimli, I will return.” 

“The path is too dangerous to walk unescorted,” Mallos warned. 

Legolas gently nudged his steed Mithlaf forward. “I shall guide them.” Knowing where the Dwarf was staying would be most… helpful. 

Glorfindel started to narrow his eyes at the young Elf, then remembered his Vow of Calm. “Nay Legolas. I do not think that necessary.” 

Gimli and the Dwarves rumbled in agreement. “Aye,” said Gimli. “I have no desire to be led anywhere by _him_.” 

Legolas smoothly dismounted, wincing slightly at the stiffness in his newly healed leg. “Do you doubt my honor, Dwarf? You believe I would lead you astray?” His voice grew dangerously sweet. “I assure you I have no such intentions.” 

Gimli emitted a derisive snort. “By my axe you do not.” 

Legolas cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. “Then you call me a liar?” 

“No…” Gimli faltered. Confound that loathsome Elf. 

“Ah, but you did. You specifically stated—“ 

“Peace, Legolas.” Calengaladh placed a restraining hand on his brother’s shoulder. 

Mallos blinked. That was his job. He was supposed to be the peacemaker. He stared intently at his older brother. What was Calengaladh up to? 

“I would have the healer clear your injuries,” Calengaladh said, addressing Legolas and ignoring Mallos’ piercing eyes. “I shall escort Glorfindel and the Naugrim.” 

Glorfindel had the sneaking suspicion he had just been traded one evil for another. Unfortunately, he was not sure which was the lesser of the two. He sighed. Fortunately, several hundred years of Elladan and Elrohir had fine-tuned his coping abilities. _‘Desperate means call for desperate measures, I suppose.’_

“I would make a request before we split ways.” 

Calengaladh and Legolas both looked to Mallos, who merely shrugged. Thranduil’s dark-haired son could think of no reason to deny Glorfindel's wish. 

“Speak, my Lord,” said Calengaladh. 

Glorfindel furrowed his brow. “There have been several…indiscretions… over the course of our journey. I propose they be left on the trail, and that you speak no more of the matter.” 

Legolas’ eyes darted furtively from Gimli to Glorfindel. “And what of the punishments?” He searched the Elf lord’s unreadable visage intently. 

Glorfindel opened his hands and spread his fingers as though releasing an invisible dust. “Gone.” He frowned at both Legolas and Gimli, feeling a prick of sympathy for the rest of the Fellowship. “I deem your further travels together will be punishment enough.” 

Legolas pursed his lips. The thought of Thranduil never knowing his son had nearly roasted the entire company, or that he had been shot with his own arrow by a Dwarf, was quite appeasing. Then again, so was the thought of Thranduil’s wrath over Gimli’s careless words… 

“It is agreed, Lord Glorfindel.” Calengaladh inclined his head, acknowledging the Imladris captain. 

Legolas’ anger flared. Who was Calengaladh to speak for him? He was perfectly capable of making his own decisions. He opened his mouth to protest, only to be silenced by Calengaladh’s increasingly tightened grip on his shoulder. 

“Quiet.” Calengaladh leaned in closely as the Dwarves reluctantly agreed to Glorfindel’s proposal. “If Father does not know, it will be easier to repay the Dwarf. Adar will have no reason to suspect us, and thus we will not be watched.” 

Mallos, having sidled next to his brothers, looked accusingly at Calengaladh. The faint gleam in his eyes, though, suggested he wasn’t entirely past watching the Dwarf squirm. 

Glorfindel was not naïve. He was, however, marvelously adept at pretending to be. He did not miss the look exchanged between the three princes as they parted; nor did he miss Calengaladh’s fleeting yet smug grin. 

_‘Let them enjoy their perceived victory while they are able,’_ he thought wryly. He hated being deceitful, but things must be halted before they progressed even further out of hand. Absently patting his stallion’s neck, the Captain of Imladris tried to recall the exact location of Thranduil’s study. 

The others had promised to speak no word of the journey. 

Glorfindel had not. 

* * * 

As Daelir predicted, Thranduil returned to his halls much later that evening. Cross and travel-weary, he wished to do nothing more than enjoy a warm meal and then retire to bed. 

Refugees gave terrified accounts of the Enemy’s force: Wargs that disappeared into thin air, fanged black bats with bodies larger than an Elf’s fist, parties of orcs in areas there should be none. Even the spiders seemed more aggressive than usual, feeding on the expanding darkness. 

The destruction to the forest outskirts had been devastating. 

Thranduil closed his eyes, revisiting the tortured land. Mutilated carcasses: deer, squirrel, bird, were strewn carelessly about the wood in macabre decoration. Their blood tainted the leaf-littered soil black. 

The trees were screaming. Thick, sweet-smelling sap oozed from their deeply scored trunks. Despite the Elves’ best efforts—despite _his_ best efforts—the trees could not be healed. The flora and fauna that had survived blackened and twisted together in vile masses. The strange leafy knots warded off sun, starlight, and even sound. No laments were sung in this mockery of a forest; the Elves’ voices were either swallowed in the murk or thrown back in eerie keys that made the skin crawl. 

Thranduil was sickened. Sickened and furious. 

Normally, his people could simply retreat further into themselves and await the darkness to pass, secluded within their strong halls and powerful magic. One or two strong pushes kept the foul darkness at bay. This was different. This darkness was not passing, but growing and spreading. It gave Thranduil the odd sensation his kingdom was slowly being strangled. 

It had been gradually building for years, he knew. But only now, as it began to stir, did he recognize the full of its dangerous potentials. Dol Guldur had cast a depthless shadow over the land, far more powerful than those he felt now. And yet, this new threat could do more damage by the sheer number of its ranks alone. 

_‘New and Old Shadow,’_ he thought. _‘Yet the New is controlled by the Old.’_

It fairly reeked of Sauron. 

He absently thanked Galion as the faithful butler placed a steaming bowl of soup in front of him and silently departed. 

Any further musings were interrupted by a soft knock at the dining room door. The sound echoed loudly in the empty room. Thranduil sighed in irritation. “Enter.” 

The door opened, and Lhûn bowed stiffly before his father. “My Lord.” 

Thranduil acknowledged the other with a slight bob of his head. “Lhûn.” 

Things had been awkward between them ever since Lhûn announced his desire to depart Middle-earth’s shores the previous week. 

“Speak, my son. I am weary and will not be kept long.” 

“Legolas has returned,” Lhûn began, noticing the immediate flash of relief in his father’s eyes. Thranduil’s spoon trembled ever-so-slightly in his hand. “I believe he is currently in the company of Calengaladh and Mallos.” 

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Thranduil grimaced. “I shall speak with him tomorrow. His conduct merits certain repercussions, and I have not the patience nor mindset to deal with the matter now.” 

Lhûn nodded, deciding not to mention Legolas’ embarrassingly singed appearance. Besides, the youngster remained mum about how it all happened. Thranduil would undoubtedly get the tale out of him somehow. 

“Have you anything else to report?” 

“Lord Glorfindel awaits in your study, my Lord.” 

Thranduil frowned. “How long has he been kept waiting?” 

“He requested an audience immediately upon his arrival at dusk.” 

Thranduil massaged his temples in irritation. Pushing back his chair, the Elven-king crumpled the cloth napkin and stood. “Thank you, Lhûn. You are dismissed. I will see to Lord Glorfindel at once.” 

_‘Why has Glorfindel come to Mirkwood?’_ he wondered, trying to ignore the nagging suspicion he would not like what the Imladris captain had to say. 

* * * 

Thranduil swept into his study with all the grace and regal bearing of the kings of old. Perhaps he was not of the Noldor, but Sindar bloodlines in no way diminished his power. It took him a few moments to realize the ragged, burnt Elf in front of him was the legendary Glorfindel. 

Glorfindel bowed respectfully. “King Thranduil.” 

Thranduil blinked, having caught himself staring. “Lord Glorfindel?” 

The Captain of Imladris grimaced. “I apologize for my appearance.” 

“This did not occur within my realm, I hope? What befell you?” 

“Your son and a Dwarf,” Glorfindel replied. And with that, he launched headfirst into the journey that had been his personal nightmare for the past month. 

* 

One hour later, Thranduil was positive he was going to offer praise to the Valar for sparing Legolas, hug the young prince, and then personally send him to the Halls of Mandos. Maybe a Dwarf or two for good measure. 

“It seems, my Lord, I owe you an apology.” 

Still fuming over his son’s unacceptable behavior, Thranduil cast Glorfindel a puzzled glance. “An apology?” 

Glorfindel grimaced as he nodded. “Yes, my Lord. All these years I thought you harsh for keeping Legolas in Mirkwood.” 

“And?” Thranduil’s face darkened. 

A wry smile graced the lips of the Imladris captain. “I now see you sought only to protect us from him.” 

Thranduil chuckled. “He is rather…” 

“—spirited?” Glorfindel suggested. 

“You speak kindly,” Thranduil dryly replied. “I believe foolhardy and rash would better describe my son.” The Elven-king shook his head in exasperation. “Did you know Lhûn refuses to travel with him?” 

Glorfindel privately thought Lhûn’s decision a wise one. He, too, had no intention of ever traveling with Legolas again. 

“Still,” said Thranduil, correctly guessing Glorfindel’s line of thought, “such things come with youth. He will grow out of it, as did his siblings. In truth, it is his ridiculous stubborn streak that concerns me most.” 

Glorfindel cast the king a sidelong glance, but decided Thranduil would not find the irony of his statement amusing. 

“I thank you for returning my son safely to our lands.” The Elven-king’s gaze grew distant, but he shook himself, snapping back to the present. “I shall have him help construct new quarters for the refugees,” Thranduil continued, musing more so to himself than to Glorfindel. “And volunteers are always needed for the upkeep of the armory.” 

First, however, the miscreant was going to send hand-written letters of apology to Glorfindel and Elrond. Elbereth only knew what the Noldor lords thought of Wood-Elves now. The elder Dwarf probably deserved some sort of reparation too. It appeared the senile creature saved Legolas’ life. And, as Thranduil recalled, the Dwarves had behaved themselves after the Battle of Five Armies. 

After that, Legolas was going to sit through every single advisory council until he no longer resided in Thranduil’s realm. Without falling asleep. 

_‘Then perhaps I will consider letting him rejoin the patrols… in five hundred years’ time.’_

Glorfindel remained silent. He had not intended to be the one to inform Thranduil of Legolas’ impending departure. The Elven-king’s wrath was like a whirlwind; completely unpredictable and capable of leveling everything in its path. Glorfindel had no desire to take the brunt of the storm. 

Thranduil, who had always been particularly adept at gauging the moods around him, immediately noticed the other’s discomfort. 

He paused and gazed thoughtfully at Glorfindel, as though sizing him up. “If you bear other news of importance, Lord Glorfindel, I would ask that you inform me of it.” 

Glorfindel calmly met Thranduil’s sharp gaze. “I do not think it in my place to tell, my Lord.” He respectfully bowed his head. “But perhaps Legolas can better explain the matter.” 

In the ensuing silence, Thranduil graciously filled two goblets of wine from a barrel stashed beside his desk. Glorfindel had the distinct impression Thranduil’s act was more out of the desire to control his temper than courtesy to his guest. 

Handing Glorfindel one of the goblets, Thranduil twisted the second in his hand and stared unseeing at the flames dancing in the study’s fireplace. “I have heard, Lord Glorfindel, that Lord Elrond has chosen nine companions to journey south.” 

He paused to take a sip of wine. It was then Glorfindel noticed Thranduil was gripping the glass stem so tightly his knuckles were white. 

“Four Pheriannath,” said Thranduil, his face controlled and cold as stone. “Two men, the Istari Mithrandir, a Dwarf.” 

He took another sip. “And an Elf.” 

Glorfindel silently nodded, taking a sip from his own goblet. It was all he could do not to spit it back into the cup. It was the most disgusting vintage he had ever tasted in his life, and had the vague aftertaste of what he swore to be swamp water. 

Thranduil stiffly set the wine glass atop his desk. Several drops sloshed over the rim and fell to the table, deep red slowly spreading and staining several parchments. Thranduil did not even notice. 

“Legolas is needed here. Despite his moments of impudence, he is a skilled and capable warrior. Very few rival his prowess with the knife, and he is one of Mirkwood’s most gifted archers.” 

“He is also needed elsewhere,” Glorfindel softly replied. 

Thranduil’s jaw tightened. “ _Legolas is needed here_ ,” he repeated, grey eyes flashing defiantly. 

Glorfindel carefully set down his goblet next to Thranduil’s with a sigh. “My Lord, the decision has already been made. Legolas accepted the position.” 

“Then it shall be un-made.” Thranduil’s fists clenched. “You will ride back to Imladris and inform Elrond he shall not have my son.” 

“I cannot do that. He has already—“ 

_“I FORBID IT!”_

Thranduil’s roar echoed powerfully within the study. Candles and lamplight leapt fearfully as the Elven-king’s anger swept through the room like a stinging draft. 

Glorfindel serenely waited until the last reverberation died away. He had faced Balrogs. Thranduil would not faze him. “I understand your concern—“ 

Thranduil’s eyes grew sharp as two chips of ice. “You cannot begin to _‘understand my concern!’_ Tell me, Glorfindel, how many children have you lost over these long years? A wife? A father? A mother?” 

“We have all lost someone dear to the heart, Thranduil. None have gone unscathed. You know this as well as I.” 

“I know this more so than you,” snapped the king. “A father—my king, two children, and a wife have I lost thus far to this very enemy. Lhûn, my heir, will depart to the West shortly. He says he cannot bear another war.” Thranduil’s voice grew to little more than an acidic, bitter hiss. “Yet again the Enemy succeeds in tearing my family apart. And now you ask for Legolas? He is too young.” Thranduil folded his arms across his chest and glowered. “You cannot have him.” 

“It is his youth that makes him so valuable,” Glorfindel replied. “A sapling will bend in the storm and spring upright once the gale has passed. Legolas’ youth will be his protection. He was meant to fulfill such a role—no other is so qualified.” 

Thranduil laughed mirthlessly. “Of course my Noldor cousins would willingly send a Sindar prince to Mordor in sacrifice. And what a fine sacrifice Elrond Peredhil has chosen!” 

“Legolas is not to be made a sacrifice.” 

“Indeed?” Thranduil curled one lip in furious disdain. “Then why does our noble High Elf not send one of his own sons? Do not patronize me, Glorfindel. I am not so naïve as my youngest son to realize even if he does somehow survive this suicide quest, it will destroy him nonetheless. I would not see him so tainted by the darkness.” 

“And yet,” Glorfindel softly remarked, “he has grown up under that very same shadow.” 

Thranduil smiled a brittle smile and shook his head. “Nay, you are wrong. While he was born into Mirkwood’s dangers, he has never known true loss. He was very young when his mother died: it caused him grief but he never fully understood it. He has never known complete fear, Glorfindel. And he has never known utter despair. Middle-earth is still wondrous and new to my son. He does not see our twilight because for him it is still dawn.” 

The Elven-king unleashed a furious glare upon the Elf lord. “And I will do everything in my power to keep it so.” 

Glorfindel, not wishing to further provoke the volatile king, smiled sadly before bowing and turning to leave. “I do not doubt you will try, my Lord. I do not doubt you will try.” 

* 

Thranduil stood, cold and silent, until Glorfindel’s last footfalls no longer reached his ears. White-hot anger surged through him like a bolt of lightening. 

He snatched his goblet and hurled it at the far wall with all the strength he could muster. It shattered, sending crimson rivulets of wine streaming to the floor. 

The golden-haired Elf glowered. The timelessness of Elven life, which he had labored so carefully to preserve, lay shattered at his feet. Even worse, there was absolutely nothing he could do to mend it. 

Feeling helpless, and enraged that he felt so, Thranduil angrily went in search of a broom. 

He had lost too much already. Sauron would not conquer his kingdom. Sauron would not take his youngest son. 

* * * 

Mallos nervously plucked the string of his bow. 

Calengaladh had returned at dusk, immediately calling for them to reconvene in one of the outer palace gardens. He had brought two burlap sacks with him and was fervently speaking to Legolas in hushed tones. Legolas appeared thoroughly impressed, while Calengaladh’s smug grin and gleaming eyes suggested nothing but trouble. 

Mallos refused to listen to his brother’s plans, having discovered long ago the phrase “But I had no idea…” would successfully save his neck in almost any situation. However, someone did have to keep an eye on the two. And, as usual, Mallos found himself to be that someone. 

This was not to say he wasn’t looking forward to witnessing whatever awaited the Dwarf. 

Calengaladh had always been particularly gifted in the art of revenge. It was a talent he seldom used anymore, having sobered with age and the premature departure of his betrothed. Still, to witness his plans unfold was to witness a master. Though neither would admit it, both Legolas and Mallos envied their older brother. He could say and do what they did not dare. It was exhilarating, to a certain degree. 

“We shall return in three hours’ time,” Calengaladh called, both he and Legolas poised to leap into the tree branches. “Will you be ready?” 

Mallos nodded. 

Each brother threw a sack over his shoulder, and, Mallos noted, was armed with extra arrows and a pouch of bread and venison. 

_‘What could they possibly be up to?’_ he mused, then quickly reminded himself he did not want to know. 

* * * 

Lhûn, Heir of Mirkwood and eldest living son of Thranduil, watched the river water as it rushed over the beech tree roots. The tall, golden-haired prince stood with his back to Thranduil’s halls, so silent and unmoving he might be mistaken for a beech sapling. 

The Crown Prince resembled Thranduil in height and looks, though he had inherited his mother’s willowy frame—as did the rest of his siblings—and her clear, ashen-colored eyes. He was inclined to be serious and seemed to grow more so with each passing season; indeed, his siblings often made light of his morose attitude. Lhûn had seen much in the ways of darkness, though. Perhaps too much. He was stubborn and volatile as Thranduil, but was also given to thoughtful contemplation much as his brother Mallos. 

Night blanketed the forest in her dark cloak, draping over and around the ashen tree trunks like velvet. _‘Then again,’_ the crown prince thought somewhat cynically, _‘it is often dark within our realm.’_

He removed the crown fashioned of berries and red leaves from his head with a sigh. The stars winked coldly from the sky as they pierced through the blackened night. Lhûn idly wondered if they appeared the same in Valinor. 

“Is it true, my brother? Is it your intention to leave us?” 

The golden-haired lord turned to the voice, finding the slender form of his sister gracefully picking her way over the tree roots. 

He sighed again and toyed with the crown in his hands. “Tuilë, I am weary.” He spread his arms and gestured to the evening shadows. “I am weary of this darkness. I am weary of spiders and orcs. And I am weary of the endless battle to protect our land.” 

The fair maiden pushed a plait of golden-brown hair over her shoulder and smiled sadly. “We are all weary, Lhûn.” 

The two stood silently for a time, listening to the leaves’ midnight whispers and the occasional strain of song wafting from behind the palace doors. 

“There is to be a war, Tuilë. It shall be unlike any Middle-earth has seen in ages.” 

Mirkwood’s princess delicately trailed her fingers over the lichen-covered tree bark. She and Lhûn had always been particularly close. Mayhap it was because their deceased sister had been nearest Lhûn’s age. “So I have heard as much from those who fled the hills and mountains.” She eyed her brother resolutely. “I think it all the more reason you should remain. Mirkwood needs you more than ever.” 

“Nay, I cannot face another war.” Lhûn lowered his head and closed his eyes, shoulders sagging. “Perhaps you think me a coward, but the thought of witnessing more loved ones fall… the destruction of the land we have fought so helplessly to preserve… I cannot bear it. Not again.” 

“I do not doubt your courage.” Tuilë squeezed her brother’s arm in reassurance. 

Lhûn absently nudged a pebble into the rushing waters with the toe of his boot. 

“You miss her,” said Tuilë. “And she has patiently awaited your arrival in Elvenhome for decades.” 

“Nimlasse is my wife,” Lhûn simply answered. He pushed aside the powerful yearning left by his wife’s absence and grinned somewhat cheekily at his sister. “Speaking of loved ones, where is that nervous archer of yours?” He chuckled at the blush that flamed across Tuilë’s pale cheeks. 

Tuilë sniffed and tossed her head. “Ever since you made pretense of sharpening your spear blade in front of my door whilst he sought to visit me, he does not relish your presence.” 

“Whatever for?” asked Lhûn, feigning great puzzlement. 

Tuilë rolled her eyes. “My _dear_ brother, I—“ She stopped abruptly and frowned, silver eyes narrowing at something in the distance. 

“What is it?” Lhûn snapped his head around and reached for his long knife. He sensed no danger, but Tuilë always had been highly perceptive. 

Her frown deepened. “There,” she murmured, pointing to three cloaked figures sneaking furtively to the wooden bridge. Two of them carried wriggling sacks. 

Brother and sister pressed themselves against the beech trunks, midnight shadow and low branches concealing them from view. 

“Why must I carry them?” one of the figures hissed, holding the shaking sack as far away from his body as possible. 

Tuilë met Lhûn’s eyes. 

_Legolas._

“Because I am in charge,” responded the second sack-bearing figure. His sack was not wriggling nearly as much. 

_Calengaladh._

Lhûn rolled his eyes towards the heavens in exasperation. Tuilë pressed a hand to her forehead. “All hail the future Heir of Mirkwood,” she breathed, eliciting a sharp jab in the ribs from Lhûn. 

The third figure froze at Tuilë’s muffled yelp. “Shhh! Did you not hear that?” 

The cloaked figure that was Calengaladh snorted. "Mallos, if you are too frightened, then by all means turn back.” 

Mallos gathered his cloak and squared his shoulders. “I am not,” he firmly stated. “Though I think this a terrible—“ 

“Yes, yes,” Legolas crossly interrupted. His sack was giving him quite a difficult time. “You think it a terrible idea. However, Calengaladh did not ask you to brood over our undertaking.” 

“Mind your elders, Elfling,” came Mallos’ unnaturally sharp reply. “And you ought to be thankful at least one of us is thinking.” 

Lhûn could almost hear Legolas scowl. 

“Calengaladh?” Legolas gave his sack a deft punch as its inhabitants began to hiss threats at him. “How am I supposed to ride a horse with these creatures? Mithlaf will not let me near him.” 

The tall figure of Calengaladh shrugged, cloak billowing out around his knees. “I am certain you will think of something, Ant es Sauron.” 

The remaining squabble was lost to Lhûn and Tuilë, for the three brothers crossed the river and disappeared into the forest. 

“Elbereth help us,” muttered Tuilë, shaking her golden-brown head. Calengaladh’s plots were usually carried out against Legolas. That the two had joined forces did not bode well for some unlucky victim. 

“I do not even want to know of their intentions,” said Lhûn, unknowingly echoing Mallos’ earlier sentiments. 

They turned back to Thranduil’s great halls, neither sibling noticing the fourth cloaked figure as it stealthily vanished into Mirkwood’s eaves. 


	31. Two Bags of Tricks and One up the Sleeve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

_Thank you for the wonderful reviews, Miriel and Hai!!! :)_

_A/N : __I humbly offer this excerpt as testament of “why Boromir would not make a good spy”:_

_“’. . . always have I let my horn cry at setting forth, and though thereafter we may walk in the shadows, I will not go forth as a thief in the night.’” --Boromir, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, Book II, Chapter III: ‘The Ring Goes South.’_

******* 

Glóin drew himself fully upright and puffed out his chest. “Well my boy,” he said gruffly, “I expect this is goodbye.” 

Looping his thumbs through his belt, Gimli grunted and gave a brisk nod. 

Glóin and Barin were to continue on and reach Lake-town by evening. Residents of the Lonely Mountain would be eager to hear of what news transpired at the Council of Elrond, and Glorfindel felt the Dwarven settlement ought to be informed of the Enemy’s increased presence as soon as possible. The time had come for Gimli and Glóin to split ways. 

The party had reached a worn little inn at the forest outskirts. It was nothing special, but appeared cozy and well suited to the needs of travelers pressed for time. Village men often made use of it when dealing with the Elven-king, thus ensuring the two-storied building would stay in business despite its obscure location. 

“Stay away from dragons and the sort, if you can,” Glóin continued. “Otherwise your mother will have my beard. And keep an eye on that fellow Gandalf. He has a habit of disappearing when you need him most.” He placed a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed. “To tell the truth, I would rather you come home. But,” he smiled slightly at Gimli’s look of protest, “that must wait until you fulfill more important duties.” 

Glorfindel and Calengaladh stood off to one side at a respectful distance. Glorfindel’s face belied one touched at the scene before him, whereas Calengaladh stared up at the rose-tinted clouds and politely stifled a yawn. 

Glóin pulled his son closer. “You know, the Elven-king Thranduil was not so terrible after the War.”* 

Gimli snorted. 

“Listen to me, boy. Greedy, stubborn, and arrogant he was, but not without honor and compassion. He is a good sort underneath it all, I think. His tribute to Thorin* was heartfelt and respectful.” 

The Dwarf’s deep brown eyes slid over to Calengaladh, who was mentally counting every third needle on a scraggly pine. “I have little love for the Elven-king, and even less for his sons. But it would behoove you to make some sort of peace with the prince Legolas. Your journey is for the sake of Middle-earth, Gimli. It goes beyond our two Races’ squabbles. I hate to think my own dislike has colored your thinking, but I know it has.” 

Glorfindel, who faulted his keen ears for overhearing the conversation, could not help but smile in approval. Perhaps there was hope, after all. 

Gimli nodded in agreement, though it was primarily to appease his father. _‘Next he will suggest we become best friends,’_ the Dwarf thought rather sourly. Visions of himself frolicking through flower-strewn pastures and thick forests, hand-in-hand with the Elf and singing at the top of his lungs came to mind. He very nearly made himself ill. 

“Gimli?” His distaste must have shown, for Glóin was looking at him in concern. 

Gimli shook his head and shuddered. “Nothing,” he replied. “It is nothing.” The day he willingly made peace with Thranduil’s youngest brat was the day he would have tea with Sauron. 

The old Dwarf smiled again, though it was tinted with sadness. Gimli almost believed his father’s dark eyes bore tears. 

Glóin awkwardly cleared his throat. “I am proud of you, Gimli. Imagine: My very own son chosen to represent all of Dwarf kind!” 

At a loss for words, Gimli gripped his father’s shoulder in reply. He did not quite trust his voice at the moment, anyways. His father was proud of him. Heart swelling, Gimli vowed he would not disappoint the elder Dwarf. 

His father was proud of him. 

* * * 

Several days passed before Aragorn and Boromir discovered an alternate route across the River Hoarwell. Awkward moments between the two men came and went as expected, though inclement weather and other traveling difficulties did not offer many chances for idle conversation. 

They traveled by day and well into the chilly evenings, remaining on known paths while the sun was high and slipping to lesser-trod routes when nighttime shadows beckoned. It was during these midnight sojourns that they spotted the Enemy most often. From thicket, fen, or ancient Dúnedain blind, they silently watched and tracked. 

Had Boromir been better acquainted with Aragorn, he would have noticed the Ranger’s growing unease. The subtleties were clear enough to those who knew him well: the undecipherable Elvish muttering when they came upon the ransacked and abandoned woodcutter’s home; the way Aragorn’s jaw tensed when they discovered the tracks of orkish parties heading towards Rivendell; the grim flash of concern in the grey eyes when it appeared the parties were strangely organized—almost to the point of cunning. But, as Halbarad was fond of saying, Aragorn had “grown up Elvish.” The calm demeanor, coupled with the dour weariness of the Dúnedain, remained ever intact. And Boromir was none the wiser. 

“There is some strange devilry afoot,” Boromir had remarked, upon witnessing a pack of wolves trot mutely over the hillside and vanish without a trace. “And I like it not. Even the mindless beasts have become as trained soldiers.” 

Aragorn nodded, jaw tightening, but made no reply. 

The son of Denethor—as most people of Gondor—was leery of any act deemed “magic.” Such powers were unpredictable and uncontrollable; they defied laws of nature that simply were not meant to be broken. Beings who held these powers were just as dangerous. It was precisely this reason Boromir was so wary of Elves. 

Magic trinkets were different. Now there was a power one could hold in the hands; feel the weight and perfect smoothness, see the flashes of orange, red, and silver-white as they danced off the golden band… 

* 

Amid the frigid air and softly dusting snowfall, Boromir found his respect deepening for this supposed Heir of Isildur. In fact, he was actually beginning to like the man. It was an odd feeling, to say the least. He wished to call Aragorn friend, but was not sure if such a thing were appropriate. 

They were both allied against the same evil—certainly—but Aragorn was also Boromir’s rival for leadership of Gondor. 

_‘Perhaps we could be friendly rivals?’_

Boromir was not sure if he were capable of such a thing. Faramir was, for he had inherited their mother’s soft heart. Boromir, on the other hand, knew an underlying jealously would taint any ‘friendly rivalry.’ 

He was a leader, not a follower. 

It was precisely this reason he detested Éomer Éadig of Rohan. The latter, he knew, felt just the same. Boromir liked Théodred enough; Théoden’s son had a temperament similar to that of Faramir. Éomer on the other hand… Boromir scowled. That straw-headed horseman was far too brash and impudent for his liking. Thankfully, the tattered state of relations between Gondor and Rohan ensured neither man was forced to deal with the other. 

One of his fondest memories of the Rohirrim horseman was the day his over-spirited horse shied at a flapping banner. Éomer had ended up on his backside in the dust. 

_‘Fallen from atop his high horse—literally.’_ Boromir choked back a snicker, rather amused with himself. 

It was said Éomer had a sister, though Boromir had never met her and could not recall her name. The lady was rumored to be quite skilled with the blade. Boromir envisioned her exactly like Éomer: broad-shouldered, tall, and slightly bow-legged from years of horse riding. Yes, she was the spitting image of her brother—minus the facial hair. Well, maybe she had a little… 

“Boromir!” 

Boromir blinked. Aragorn was lying on his stomach in the forest leaves, frantically motioning him to dismount. He did so, releasing his horse and moving to duck down beside the tarred Ranger. 

“What is it? More orc patrols?” He shifted uncomfortably in the decomposing leaves, wet mud seeping through his clothing and onto his elbows and knees. Dusk had begun to settle over the Trollshaws, and in the gloam is was difficult to distinguish shadow from tree trunk. Boromir squinted and peered down the hill. 

Aragorn nodded. “Yes. There. And there.” He silently pointed to the bottom of the hill, where the hideous creatures slunk through the woods. 

Boromir sighed in frustration. He was tired of all this sneaking and spying. It was an affront to his pride. He much preferred facing the enemy head-on. And there were only five of the beasts. The broad-shouldered man glanced at Aragorn, who was intently studying the orc’s movements, and made up his mind. 

“Boromir! _No!”_ Aragorn made a futile grab for the man’s ankles. He was not fast enough. 

Unsheathing his sword, Boromir leapt forward. 

The oath that escaped Aragorn’s mouth was so vile it startled even himself. 

“Boromir,” he vehemently hissed, scrambling to his feet. “You fool! Come back! We are only to scout the Enemy!” He lunged in desperation; catching Boromir the moment the man began his charge. 

Branches snapped, leaves crunched, and bodies thudded painfully as the two men rolled downhill. 

They came to an abrupt and tangled halt by slamming forcefully into a clump of junipers. The bushes shuddered angrily. 

“There are only five,” Boromir spat, groaning and discovering himself in a most awkward position. The Horn of Gondor dug into his side. “We could have easily overpowered them.” 

Aragorn was livid. “Only five that we saw!” 

Further debate was quelled by the calls of alerted orcs. 

“It came from there!” 

“What was it?” 

“Look, it made a big trail where it slid down.” 

The two men held their breath, Boromir silently cursing their luck and Aragorn silently cursing Boromir. 

The ring of unsheathed weapons shivered in the crisp forest air. Boromir and Aragorn instinctively reached for their swords. 

Aragorn peered through the closely-knit branches. He recognized the sound of arrows rattling against one another in the quiver. _‘Running will do little to avail us now,’_ he thought grimly. Orcs were bred to live in the dark; their eyes capable of discerning objects in even the blackest nights. 

The five orcs, followed by a sixth and seventh previously unseen orc, cautiously slunk closer. Aragorn gritted his teeth and tensed. 

A sudden grating chuckle from behind caused the heads of both men to simultaneously snap back. “What’ve we got here?” 

Boromir suppressed a groan. They were lying on the ground, in far too vulnerable a position to fight back. He wondered where the orcs from behind had come from. 

The orc sneered, yellow eyes glittering with a light that mocked that of the Elves’. 

Aragorn was struck with the vague notion he ought to be thankful Malbeorn wasn’t present to witness this latest disaster. 

* * * 

Stifling a yawn, Gimli emptied the ashes from his pipe into a small tin on the nightstand. He gave the pipe a final tap and carefully laid it upon the small table. 

Ignoring the dry burning of his exhausted eyes, the Dwarf picked up the candle illuminating his quarters and began to scour the room. 

He was staying on the second floor of the cozy inn, though he would have much rather roomed on the ground floor. Dwarves had no love of heights, and the notion there was no solid ground beneath the wooden planks at his feet was somewhat disconcerting. Still, the food was prepared with care, the quarters spotless, and the innkeeper and his family pleasant. Not a speck of dirt could be found on the oft-polished and worn floors, and the warm scent of bayberry soap lingered throughout the snug halls. 

Lifting the candle and squinting, Gimli illuminated each corner in turn. Though not fancy, the dwelling was more than suitable. A straw-mattress bed was positioned directly opposite the door, its head resting against the wall. The room was also furnished with a nightstand and several shelves. A well-kept washbasin sat next to the nightstand, so old the spidery, angular cracks covering the bowl appeared part of its pattern. 

A small window was located on the far right wall. Gimli trundled over to it, pushing open the shutters and peering out into the night. The curtains flapped and shivered in the chilly nighttime gusts. Mirkwood’s trees creaked and swayed, seeming to bemoan the onset of winter. Gimli pulled a face and quickly withdrew his head back into the warm room. There was something downright unnatural about those trees, and not in a typical flowery Elvish sort of way. He securely bolted the shutters, grateful they blocked out the trees’ moaning. 

The Dwarf again raised the candle and looked around the room. 

_‘No Elves,’_ he thought, and then snorted angrily. Of course there were no Elves. 

His eyes slid to the suspicious darkness underneath his bed. He fancied three pairs of bright eyes stared back. 

He approached cautiously. Glancing over his shoulder (just to make sure no one was watching), Gimli slowly squatted down and held the candle forth. His heart fluttered. 

The Bed Shadows leapt and fled in terror. Gimli’s heart leapt with them. 

After a few tense moments, the Dwarf emitted a grunt of satisfaction. Just as he suspected: There were no Elves under the bed. 

He straightened, wincing as saddle-weary muscles he didn’t even know existed protested at the act. He limped to the door and gave the doorknob an experimental turn. The black iron knob held fast. Gimli patted his breast pocket. Yes, the key was there. 

His eyes slid back to the space underneath the bed. 

A second check confirmed there were still no Elves. 

He raised the flickering candle high above his head and glanced at the ceiling. Perhaps it was rather absurd to think the Elves were somehow up there. _‘But,’_ Gimli told himself, _‘it always pays to be cautious with those devious tree-coddlers.’_

He turned back to the window with a resigned sigh. Mere shutters would not stop an Elf. “‘Drive an Elf out of the door and he will fly in at the window,’” the Dwarf quoted aloud. Though, now that he thought back to his experience in Rivendell, Elves were apt to fly in at the window even if the door wasn’t locked. 

Gimli frowned and surveyed the room. 

One hour later, deciding he had done all he could to Elf-proof the room, the weary son of Glóin climbed into bed. 

The candle sputtered and died, smoke mixing with the scent of bayberry. Gimli sleepily placed a hand on the axe underneath his pillow and promptly fell asleep. 

* * * 

Legolas, Calengaladh, and Mallos quietly scouted the inn from atop a weathered pine tree. 

“Which room does the Dwarf reside?” asked Legolas. 

“The first room to the left, on the second floor,” Calengaladh replied. 

Mallos eyed his two brothers’ wriggling sacks. “Are you certain? It would not bode well were you to enter the wrong room.” 

Calengaladh walked out further onto the tree limb. “I assure you it is the correct room.” He swiftly leapt down to the ground and beckoned for Legolas. 

Legolas followed, landing rather heavily when his sack decided to bolt. 

“Do not let them loose!” Calengaladh hissed. 

Legolas brushed the dirt from his knees with his free hand. It was not fair; why must he carry the spiders? Granted, they were just barely hatched—only about the size of two fists—and had been de-fanged. But it was still not fair. 

“Let us go! Let us go, stupid Elf!” The sack’s inhabitants began to curse and snap. 

Darting after Calengaladh, Legolas gave the bag a half-hearted thump against the bole of a tree. “Hush, or I shall swing harder.” 

The spiders growled. “Dumb Elf! Springy little Tree Hopper! We will eat you. _EAT YOU!_ ” 

“I highly doubt that. You have no teeth.” 

Calengaladh, his face appearing strangely pale and angular in the dim moonlight, halted in front of the inn so abruptly Legolas nearly ran into him. “Legolas, please cease conversing with the spiders.” 

Running a slender hand over the weathered building, Calengaladh searched for imperfections in the outer walls. He murmured appreciatively at what he found. The climb would not be a difficult one. One hand keeping a secure hold on his sack of squirrels, who were nervously chattering, the golden-haired prince ascended the building walls. 

Legolas carefully climbed up next to Calengaladh. The squirrels, scenting the presence of their most feared predator, began squeaking and chattering in terror. Black squirrels and spiders of Mirkwood were natural enemies; a single grown spider was capable of finishing off five squirrels in one meal. No other member of the forest found the squirrels’ bitter taste appealing. The spiders, however, seemed to relish it. 

The spiders, upon scenting the squirrels, took up the chant, _“Meat! Meat! Meat!”_

“I wonder how it was they learned to sing,” Legolas absently remarked. 

Calengaladh, busy working the pins in the shutters, paused to give his brother a look that suggested normal Elves do not contemplate such matters. 

“Are you certain this is the right room?” A nagging voice in the back of Legolas’ head seemed to think the plot an increasingly bad idea. Even more irritating was the fact that it sounded like Mallos. _‘Or perhaps Glorfindel.’_

Calengaladh allowed himself a grin as the shutter loosed. “I have already told you, yes, it is this room. Quit hovering over my shoulder and listen.” 

The sonorous waves of Dwarven snores halted any further doubts of to whom resided in the room. 

They kneeled, poised on the window ledge like two sleek cats. Calengaladh was forced to admit there were certain benefits to working with Legolas. Mayhap they ought to do it more often. 

Gimli slept on, oblivious to the terror about to be unleashed. 

Calengaladh crouched. “Shall we proceed?” Only then did he notice Legolas’ unconscious kneading of the spider sack and furtive glances towards the trees. Calengaladh scowled. This was precisely why he never worked with Mallos or Tuilë. He had no time for hesitation; second-guessing was not his nature. 

“Legolas? If you fear the Naugrim will again shoot you—“ 

“We shall proceed.” 

Calengaladh hid his smile. Sometimes provoking Legolas was too easy. Turning his attention to the window, he drew back the faded curtains. The two Elves leapt from the windowsill, swift and silent as midnight shadows. 

Their feet slid out from under them the moment they landed. 

Gimli had soaped the floor. 

* * * 

So intent was Mallos upon watching his brothers, he never felt the slight dip of added weight on the pine branch, nor did he see the tall figure looming directly behind him. 

A heavy hand suddenly fell upon his shoulder. Mallos jumped with a gasp, nearly falling from the pine’s branches in the process. He instinctively whirled and drew the knife from his belt in one blurred motion. 

The dark figure deftly caught his wrist in its vice-like grip. The knife was forcefully extracted from Mallos’ fingers. 

“Where are your brothers?” Thranduil demanded. 

White as snow and heart pounding faster than a runaway horse, Mallos wordlessly pointed to the two figures framed in the inn’s second-story window. 

Thranduil released his son’s wrist and pushed back the hood of his cloak. He looked murderous. Blazing grey eyes watched Legolas and Calengaladh leap into the room, cloaks fluttering behind them. 

Mallos tried to swallow, but his tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth. Willing his heart to slow, he managed a painful gulp. Elbereth Gilthoniel, were they in trouble. 

Thranduil angrily turned to the dark-haired prince and opened his mouth to speak. That very instant, Gimli’s room erupted into a cacophony of screams. 

Mallos flinched. 

The words, “But I had no idea,” reverberated painfully through his skull. Knowing his mouth would likely get him into even more trouble, he bit his tongue and remained silent. 

Anger rolled off Thranduil in smoldering waves. “Come with me,” he ordered. His voice was calm. Dead calm. “And do not even bother claiming you had no knowledge of this.” 

******* 

_“. . . the War.” --The Battle of Five Armies_

_‘[Thranduil’s] tribute to Thorin. . .’ – “Upon his tomb the Elvenking then laid Orcrist, the elvish sword that had been taken from Thorin in captivity. It is said in songs that it gleamed ever in the dark if foes approached, and the fortress of the Dwarves could not be taken by surprise.” --J.R.R Tolkien, The Hobbit. Chapter XVIII: ‘The Return Journey,’ pg. 292 (Del Ray/ Ballantine Books, 1982 Revised Edition)._

_* * *_

Thank you! 

Miriel- *lol* Trouble is right! And yep, it looks like our three darling princes are in quite a bit of it. I wouldn't want to be anywhere _near_ Thranduil at the moment. As far as my records go, no one has claimed Shadowfax, so he's all yours. Expect a crate via post to arrive at your doorstep in a few days. It will have 'Caution: Live Animal' stamped on it in red. All I ask is that you return him during chapters and that he is capable to perform what duties he must. That being said: enjoy!!! ...The townspeople of Pahtoh are a fairly simple folk. So when they see A Giant Winged Beast, it's obviously going to be equated to something that needs to be conquered. (Cute little warrior villagers they are...) Alas, there were no dresses involved in the rescue of Boromir. Halbarad is still complaining. (I love that Ranger to death.) After all my cruelties to Boromir, I suppose he deserved a little loving, don't you think? *lol* Spread the wealth of "backwards" elvish!!! :) Thank you for the fantastic reviews!!! 

Hai- I completely agree--Shadowfax deserves what he gets. The rotten, egotistical monster he is. ;) And Glorfindel really doesn't get enough credit. (Plus Arwen went and stole his scene in the movie. The poor Elf gets no breaks!) *grin* I think I got a little carried away with writing the Revenge On Gimli, but it was fun... :) Thank you for the great review!! 


	32. Please Do Not Feed the Spiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

Sam allowed his body to go limp, arms and legs dangling precariously from the eagle’s golden talons. They were flying over the Misty Mountains— _again_. Under normal circumstances, Sam was more than happy to follow set routines. This, however, was one he found decidedly unpleasant. His loathing of the Misty Mountains was beginning to border hatred.

The hobbit bleakly watched the foggy peaks below. Wisps of cloud rested further down the mountainside as though ensnared within the trees. Sam sighed in misery. Why could they not have been captured by a wingless beast for a change? Or, for that matter, why must they take the mountainous route? Surely there were plenty other non-mountain ways to reach the Enemy. If evil really was everywhere, as the Elves claimed, wasn’t it entirely possible to walk around until you eventually bumped into it? 

A few of the more stubborn trees still bore their summer greens. From Sam’s lofty vantage point, they almost looked like broccoli. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food, even if it was broccoli. 

_‘Now look what I’ve fallen to: Imagining trees taste like broccoli!’_

Doubtless the Gaffer would have something to say about that, if Sam ever had the chance to tell him. 

The gardener shivered and squinted his eyes against the stinging wind. The blue woolen tunic from Pahtoh was keeping him warm for the most part, though his hands and feet had gone numb long ago. Unfortunately, neither warm tunic nor numbing wind could dull the ache of misery in his chest. ‘ _We tried our best, we did, Mister Frodo. I’m sorry it just wasn’t best enough.’_

Sam rested his head against the leathery talon in defeat. He wished the Gaffer had imparted some wisdom that might be helpful in his current situation. Perhaps, _“Two caught hobbits is better than three caught hobbits,”_ or maybe, _“If you ever find yourself being carried off by an eagle, don’t look down.”_ Unfortunately, none of the elder hobbit’s phrases came to mind. And if he did have any advice on the matter, he’d kept it to himself. 

The great eagle suddenly drew its legs into its body. Sam and Pippin yelped in terror. 

Landroval cocked his head and peered at Sam. The hobbit shuddered as the eagle’s amber-flecked eyes dilated in calculation. 

“Is that better, little plumpkin?” The bird’s voice was clipped and strong as the craggy peaks below. 

Pippin squeaked through chattering teeth. “B-better?” 

The eagle gave his massive wings a powerful flap. “Are you warmer now?” 

Sam lifted his head in surprise. Nestled against the eagle’s downy under-feathers, he actually was warmer. 

“Oh,” said Pippin. He paused to ponder the eagle’s question. “Yes. Yes I am, thank you.” 

Landroval turned a liquid eye on Pippin and clacked his golden beak in what Sam hoped was some form of satisfaction. Seeing his reflection in the amber-flecked gaze, Pippin gaped. He wondered if the great bird’s prey felt similar awe before being devoured. Landroval turned his head, breaking the young hobbit’s paralysis. 

“Are you going to eat us?” Pippin tentatively asked. 

“Eat you?” The eagle seemed amused by the suggestion. He gave his dun-colored wings another powerful beat. “Goodness, no. You are far too stressed to be tasty.” He squeezed Sam as though to prove his point. Sam whimpered. “I imagine you would be quite stringy and bitter.” 

“Funny,” said Pippin, immensely cheered by the fact they weren’t going to be eaten, “I always imagined I would taste like cow. Maybe bacon, but most likely cow.” 

“ _Pippin_ ,” Sam frantically hissed, “ _don’t go encouraging him to sample us!”_

Pippin shrugged. “He’s not going to eat us. Isn’t that so, Mister Eagle?” 

“Quite,” the bird replied. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, Mister Eagle Lord, sir,” Sam asked, as politely as he dared, “where are you taking us?” 

Pippin’s shoulders heaved as he sighed. “Probably to Saruman or Sauron, I’ll wager.” 

Landroval dipped suddenly. Sam clung grimly to the golden talon and wondered when his stomach would return to its rightful position in his belly. 

“The Windlords are great foes of the Shadow.” Discovering a new air current, the eagle wheeled back up to the heights. “Ever have we fought against the Enemy, and ever will we continue to. Lord Elrond sent for me, little plumpkins. And to Lord Elrond you shall go!” 

With that, the eagle released a piercing cry—so wild and fierce even the steadfast heart of Sam was struck by the chord and moved to some unnamable yearning. 

_“Don’t go listening to eagle calls,”_ he was sure the Gaffer would say. _“It’ll make your blood stir with adventure. And that’s a right bit of trouble, yes sir, it is.”_

* * * 

The orc who seemed to be in charge prodded Boromir with the tip of his sword. “Throw down your weapons.” 

Encircled by thirteen fully-armed orcs, Aragorn and Boromir had no choice but to comply. 

“Up and on your feet, Spies. And no funny business, or I’ll run you through myself.” 

Hands above their heads, the two men rose slowly from the tangle of juniper bushes. Boromir wistfully glanced at his sword. If he could just position his foot under it and then somehow kick it up to his hands… 

Aragorn kicked him in the back of his calf. Boromir scowled, wondering how the Ranger knew what he was thinking. ‘ _If Aragorn had not suggested we spy on the goblins, we would not have been caught in the first place!’_

Several startled cries came from the orcs when they caught sight of pitch-covered Aragorn. The lead orc held up a mangled hand for silence. The cries immediately died down to low growls. 

_“You’re a funny looking one,”_ said the orc in Black Speech. He peered closely at Aragorn and sniffed. _“Are you one of those new Uruks? They must not’ve broken your back properly.”_

Aragorn held his ground, fighting the urge to step back in revulsion. He had just been sniffed by an orc. 

“Whose patrol are you with?” Switching back to the Common Tongue, the lead orc spoke to Aragorn while idly prodding Boromir with his sword. Boromir bared his teeth. He was swiftly grabbed from behind, the blade at his throat immediately stilling further protest. 

“You deaf or something?” the orc captain snapped. “I asked you who you’re with.” 

Aragorn blinked. “What?” 

The orc to his left snickered. “He ain’t a bright one, is he Captain? Must be one of Murglik’s.” 

“Shut up, Lubdush.” The orc captain scowled at his soldier, yellow eyes glinting in foul temper. 

Halbarad’s words hit Aragorn so suddenly he actually started. _“Aragorn looks like an orc…”_

His mind raced. Did they really think he was one of them? ‘ _Surely I do not look so terrible!’_ Aragorn quickly pushed the thought aside, and the indignation that came with it. Now was neither the time nor place to debate his appearance. 

“Let’s kill them, Captain.” A second orc pointed to Aragorn. “That one’s not talking anyways.” 

The orc called Lubdush grinned, broken and jagged teeth sticking obscenely from bulbous lips. “We’ll say it was an accident.” 

The orc captain shrugged. “Fine.” 

“ _No!”_ Aragorn suddenly found himself facing the end of a dozen sword blades. He held up his hands in submission. “I must take this… prisoner…back to camp.” Boromir gurgled incoherently, the dagger against his throat preventing further reaction. 

The orc captain motioned for his soldiers to lower their weapons. “Whose party are you with?” he repeated, eyeing Aragorn suspiciously. 

“Mudlick,” Aragorn answered, not quite remembering the name spoken earlier. 

“You mean Murglik?” 

Aragorn nodded. “Yes, Murglik. Captain Murglik.” 

“Commander Murglik,” the orc captain corrected. 

“Commander Murglik,” Aragorn repeated. Boromir rolled his eyes. It would be a miracle if the Dúnadan managed to pull this off. Orcs were notoriously stupid, but not blind. 

The orc captain silently mused over Aragorn’s fate for several moments. “What’s your name, Uruk?” 

Aragorn paused. What was it Elrohir used to call him? “Uglish.” 

“Uglish?” Relaxing his stance, the orc captain lowered his sword. “Well Uglish, tell me what you were doing hiding in the bushes with this Man.” The rest of his party leered. 

“He is my prisoner,” said Aragorn. “The fool attempted to escape, and so I was forced to tackle him.” 

Boromir ground his teeth. ‘ _Prisoner? Fool? The son of Denethor is prisoner to no one.’_

The orcs looked to Boromir with malicious curiosity. “He’s a fancy one,” sneered Lubdush. “Look at these fine clothes.” He clawed Boromir’s intricately embroidered tunic. Boromir jerked back in revulsion. The orc restraining him tightened its grasp while the rest jeered. 

“Do not harm him,” Aragorn warned, a little too sharply. He cringed inwardly as the orc captain’s eyes again grew suspicious. “He is worth much. The Master thinks him valuable.” 

The orcs’ antics immediately subsided at mention of the “Master.” ‘ _Strange,’_ thought Aragorn, ‘ _I believed their service to Sauron out of hatred towards the other Races, but it appears they truly fear him.’_ Was Sauron truly grown so powerful? How had this happened? 

Boromir, despite his anger, was also struck by the orcs’ obedience and loyalty. He had battled long enough to realize those who fought out of fear often fought to the death. Demise by their foes was usually better than the fate awaiting them at the hands of their masters. Adding this to the orcs’ hatred of others and love of bloodlust, they made a lethal adversary indeed. 

_‘How shall Gondor, already with her back to the unyielding wall, survive against such odds? How will any of us?’_

* * * 

The peaceful slumber of night was ripped apart by the unearthly commotion in Gimli’s quarters. 

Arms flailing wildly, Legolas and Calengaladh released equal cries of dismay as they plummeted to the bayberry-soaped floor. Gimli bolted upright with a tremendous bellow. Momentarily stunned by the impact, both Elves relinquished their grasp on the sacks. 

Shrieking squirrels and spiders exploded into the small room. Lacking enough sense to escape through the open window (for in such frenzied states the mind tends to flee), the squirrels simply ran around the room in panicked circles. The spiders instinctively gave chase. 

Round and round and round they went; a black whirlwind of bushy tails and glistening legs. Shutters flapped wildly, shelves were overturned, curtains ripped, and the washbasin fell to the floor with a crash. 

“ _AI!_ ” Calengaladh howled as a squirrel’s sharp dewclaws raked across his face. 

_“Khazâd aimênu!”_ Axe gleaming cold blue in the watery moonlight, Gimli furiously untangled himself from the bed sheets and leapt to the floor. 

In his rage, he forgot he had soaped it. 

The Dwarf’s stout frame met the wooden planks with a hollow thud. His axe flew across the room, clipping several squirrels and a spider, and embedded itself in the far wall. 

A blood-curling shriek wavered in the night, a poor Woodsman and his young wife awoken from comforting dreams to the sight and sound of an axe blade splitting the wall directly above their heads. 

Gimli struggled to sit upright. Spitting flyaway strands of beard from his mouth, the Dwarf swung wildly at crazed squirrels and spiders as they bounded over him in their mad chase. Legolas and Calengaladh scrambled on the slippery floor, desperately seeking to regain footing. Panicked squirrels and blood-lusting spiders pelted them and scurried on. 

Calengaladh shouted and kicked out as he was bowled over by a gleefully cackling spider. He accidentally shoved Legolas forward in the process. 

Despite his best efforts to back-peddle, Legolas slid straight into Gimli. The momentum sent Elf and Dwarf careening into a broken shelf. Wood splintered loudly, sending the squirrels into an even greater state of terror. Struggling amid the wreckage, Legolas gagged and wondered how he managed to get soap in his mouth. 

The heavy fist connecting with his jaw immediately drew his thoughts elsewhere. 

Gimli threw himself bodily at the Elf with a mighty roar. “I am going to rip off those pointy ears and feed them to your spiders!” 

Any self-respecting Dwarf was well versed in the art of “Tussling.” It was a means by which to settle arguments when too much ale rendered the tongue useless, or to simply prove one’s superior strength. The rules were straightforward and uncontestable: No biting, no pulling of beards, no hitting below the belt, and no hitting the chests of female Tusslers. Matches automatically ended when one Tussler either cried defeat or was knocked unconscious. 

The sight of small Dwarflings rolling around the cavern floor, wrestling and punching for all their compacted bodies were worth, was not uncommon. Indeed, elders and parents often viewed such brawls with mild approval. _“You have yourself a fine young Tussler!”_ or so the saying went, and it was praise enough for any proud mother and father. 

Gimli always had been a decent Tussler. 

Grabbing a fistful of fine Elven hair, he gave Thranduil’s brat another good clout. 

Only too late did Legolas realize the strength contained within Gimli’s deceptively short frame was not to be dismissed. He suddenly found himself lying prostrate on his back, while a mad Dwarf sat on his chest and soundly beat him. Buoyed by sheer desperation, the Elf let out a strangled cry of rage and wildly pummeled whatever his fists came into contact with. In his anger, it never occurred to him he ought to simply pin the Dwarf beneath him. There was something sickeningly gratifying about striking back. 

Fisticuffs of any sort were viewed by the Elves as uncouth and barbaric. Thus, though thoroughly schooled in all manner of weaponry, Legolas had no real idea of how one engaged in a brawl. Fists were only used, or so he had been taught, as means of defense. The idea of attacking your enemy with them was unheard of. 

Whereas Gimli made use of finely honed skills and stratagem, Legolas was forced to rely on brute strength alone. 

Legolas grunted in pain as Gimli’s punch drove the air from his gut. Any hopes of Calengaladh joining the battle were immediately disposed of: three spiders had launched themselves at the beleaguered prince, flinging their sticky webbing at his head and feet. Calengaladh was attempting to beat them off with a pillow. Four squirrels clung grimly to his head and shoulders, their bushy tails slapping across his face as they chattered and twitched in panic. Sliding precariously on the soaped floor, Calengaladh almost appeared to be dancing. 

Dark brown eyes glinting with murderous rage, Gimli went for Legolas’ throat. It was by pure luck the Elf managed to hit him squarely in the temple. Both howled in pain—Gimli at the exploding yellow flashes dotting his vision, and Legolas at his severely bruised knuckles. Who knew the Dwarf’s head was made of rock? 

“You fight like a maiden!” Ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, Gimli aimed for the Elf’s already split lip. 

Legolas blocked the Dwarf’s fist with an open hand, thrusting it back upward with such force Gimli ended up punching himself. The son of Glóin toppled backwards with a bellow. “Better a maiden than a Dwarf!” 

Sitting upright, Legolas lashed out with both feet and kicked the Dwarf as he lay flailing on his backside like an overturned beetle. Gimli managed to grab one foot, and the slick floor did the rest. Wooden floor eagerly met Elven skull with a loud crack. 

Gimli rolled onto his stomach with a groan and wiped away the blood trickling from his nose. His ribs were on fire. Any hopes of the Elf having been knocked unconscious were quickly dispelled as Legolas staggered to his knees. ‘ _I should have known his head was thicker than a tree stump.’_

Legolas’ lighting-quick uppercut sent the Dwarf flying backwards into a heap of splintered shelf. Gimli had to give him credit—the prince was a fast learner. A lesser (or perhaps wiser) being might have quelled before the enraged Elf. Gimli, however, was not that being. Besides, he was the selected representative of all Dwarf-kind. The pride of his entire Race was at stake. 

From his new position amongst the rubble, Gimli ranted, hurling forth every insult that immediately came to mind. “Lousy, tree-coddling, priggish, feather-headed lout!” When he ran out words the Elf would understand, he simply resorted to Dwarven. Legolas might not be familiar with the language, but the words sounded terrible enough the Elf was bound to catch their meaning. 

“At least,” Legolas snarled, “my mind does not consist of pebbles!” 

“Better to have pebbles than nothing at all!” 

“Yes—I suppose something must prevent your head from caving in!” 

The two grappled and rolled across the room. How each came to hold the other in a headlock, neither could say. Panting heavily, they glared sideways at one another. 

“Let go Elf, or I will squeeze until those sparkly eyes pop out.” 

“Nay, _you_ let go. Or I shall squeeze until the pebbles in your head flow out of your ears.” 

Calengaladh howled the Mirkwood war cry at the top of his lungs. Wielding a remnant of broken shelf as though it were a club, he beat away hissing spiders and squirrels. _Thwack!_ An unfortunate spider hit the far wall with a crunch. _Thunk!_ A wailing black squirrel went sailing through the window. Legolas and Gimli again took to rolling across the floor. 

Calengaladh’s cry came to an abrupt halt. The next thing Legolas knew, he was being bodily yanked to his feet by the nape of his tunic. Spitting furiously, he continued to swing wildly at the Dwarf—who was being restrained by… 

… _Mallos?_

With sickening dread, Legolas noticed even the squirrels and spiders had stilled. He slowly turned his head. 

Thranduil glared back. 

_‘Ai Elbereth.’_ Legolas wished the Valar would strike him dead right then and there. 


	33. Heroes of a Smaller Sort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

-Character List-

Allin- 8 year old boy from the village of Pahtoh (in Hollin), befriends Frodo 

Nwahr- Allin’s dog 

Erestor- Elrond’s Court Jester. …Okay, okay: so he’s really Elrond’s chief advisor. 

And shame on you if you don’t know whom Merry, Bilbo, Frodo, Gandalf, and Elrond are! :) 

******* 

_One. Two. Three._

Merry sighed. 

_Four. Five. Six. Seven._

As part of his rehabilitation, Elrond had given him a long elastic vine to stretch. 

_Eight. Nine. Ten._

Merry was supposed to knot one end around a piece of furniture, or shut it into a doorway, and then slowly pull the free end towards his body. 

_Eleven. Twelve._

When working on his leg instead of the shoulder, Merry was to tie the vine together, and again fasten it around a piece of furniture or secure it in the doorway. He then looped one foot through it, and slowly stretched his leg. 

_Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen._

“It will build strength and not stress your injuries as would other methods,” Elrond had said. “Pull the vine fifteen counts and then twice repeat. You must perform this exercise no less than twice daily.” 

_One. Two. Three._

Merry sighed again. Valar this was boring. 

_Four. Five-six-seven-eight._

His mind constantly wandered—which would inadvertently cause him to lose count. 

_Nine. Ten-eleven-twelve-thirteenfourteenfifteen._

How many times had he repeated? Brow furrowing in puzzlement, Merry tried to recount. _‘Well, I **think** that was three.’_ A quick survey of the room revealed Elrond was not around to tell him otherwise. 

Merry turned his body in the opposite direction and began a different set of stretches and pulls. The trick, he had learned, was to pull as quickly as possible—when no one was watching. 

_Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightfifteen._

_‘Done with one set.’_

_Onetwothreefourfivesixfifteen._

_‘And one more to go.’_

_Onetwothree—_ SNAP! 

Merry howled in pain as someone opened the door, causing the elastic vine end to spring back and whip across his arm. 

Erestor blinked. “My apologies, Meriadoc. I was unaware you occupied this room.” 

The hobbit managed a half-smile through his grimace, squeaking a tight, “That’s okay.” 

Elrond’s advisor politely bobbed his head and bid the young Brandybuck farewell. Merry stared at the door for a few moments before concluding there really was no logical explanation as to what had just occurred. _‘Elves,’_ he thought, giving his head a perplexed shake. He opened the door, placed the end of the vine back into it, and then securely closed it. 

_Onetwothreefour—_ SNAP! 

Erestor again opened the door. “Oh, my ap—“ 

_“Will you stop!”_ Merry vigorously rubbed his stinging arm. Not one, but two red welts were beginning to spread across his bicep. 

Erestor looked down his long nose at the pained hobbit. “It is unwise were you to continue making use of this door as means to secure that vine.” 

Merry glared at the dark-haired Elf. “Maybe you should quit opening the door!” 

“But it was necessary. How else am I to enter the room?” 

Merry shrugged. “The window?” 

“That is most impractical, Master Brandybuck,” Erestor responded in severe tones, “do you not think?” 

“I suppose.” Merry scowled and tossed the vine aside. Erestor continued to stand in the doorway. Merry wondered if he was supposed to guess what the Elf wanted. “Are you looking for someone or something?” 

“Lord Elrond,” Erestor replied. 

“Ah.” Merry absently scratched his foot. “Well, he’s not here.” 

Erestor nodded. “Yes, I am aware of this.” 

Merry shifted uncomfortably as Erestor continued to look at him. “Yes, so, Lord Elrond is not here, as I said…” 

“I thought perhaps you might know of his whereabouts?” 

Merry shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.” 

Erestor pursed his lips. “Mayhap he is conversing with one of the Eagles.” 

“Mayhap,” said Merry, wishing the Elf would go away. He liked Elves—they were fascinating, wise beings—but Erestor… Erestor tended to be somewhat snippety. 

“Know you the whereabouts of Master Baggins?” 

“No,” Merry replied. “Are you looking for him, too?” 

Erestor turned abruptly on his heel, robes swirling gracefully around his ankles. “Nay, I merely wondered.” 

Bilbo had done nothing but pester Erestor for the past week, regaling the frazzled Elf with tales of Mirkwood. Merry grinned. “Erestor, are you hiding from Bilbo?” 

Erestor tensed. “Nay,” he tightly replied, “I am not.” 

Merry watched Elrond’s chief counselor stalk lightly from the room: Elven dignity in all its glory. 

“Erestor—there you are!” Bilbo’s voice echoed down the bright halls. Merry swiftly shut the door and locked it, leaving Erestor to his fate. He picked up the stretching vine and knotted it to the nearest chair. Bilbo’s pattering footfalls grew louder in the corridor. 

“Erestor, where have you been? Did I mention to you that Thranduil had a staff? It was oak, as I recall. He certainly didn’t need it for walking, and I’m willing to bet it had some sort of magic to it. Erestor? Are you listening to me? Erestor, for pity’s sake, slow down! I have neither the legs nor age to keep up with you.” 

Tugging at the vine, Merry snickered quietly to himself. It served Erestor right. He gave the vine a second pull, then paused. Staring thoughtfully at the detested plant, he rolled it within his hand. The plant was strangely tube-like. 

_‘I wonder if these come any bigger?’_ Deciding he may be of some use to Rivendell’s war efforts after all, Merry unlocked the door and trotted into the sunlight, vine trailing limply after him. 

* * * 

_‘He is an advisor,’_ Elrond reminded himself, _‘of course he knows naught of stratagem and defenses.’_

This was not to say Erestor’s plan a bad one. Had circumstances been different, Elrond was fairly certain it would work splendidly. 

Drawing from the mindset of their woodland brethren, Erestor had opted for a strike-first approach. “Before,” the advisor had said, “the Enemy has chance to amass at our borders. Still do they reside in the mountains, but one strong push to demonstrate the might of Rivendell shall send them scurrying back to Mordor.” Elrond highly doubted the creatures would retreat all the way back to Mordor, but if there was one thing the forces of Sauron understood and respected, it was power. 

Units of warriors on horseback would charge into the mountains and past Enemy encampments. Horses would give the charging parties greater mobility, allowing them to easily slip behind enemy positions. Swinging back around, they would drive the orcs down the mountain and straight into the waiting forces of warriors at Rivendell’s borders. Several young Eagles were to help herd the orcs towards Rivendell, picking off those that fled back into the mountains. At Elrond’s insistence, the Beornings in the High Pass would also join the fray, preparing a front against any dark creatures that managed to elude Eagle and Elven forces. Elrond did not wish to inadvertently send the beasts over the mountains and into Mirkwood or Lothlórien. Both realms were pressed as it was. 

The Enemy would be split and flushed—left to the fate of the Beornings, or the Windlords and warriors of Elrond. 

Therein lay the problem: Elrond was not sure he had enough warriors to defend the borders. If a majority of them were going to be driving the orcs towards Rivendell, who was left to defend it? 

The Elf lord raised a slender hand in acknowledgement of the eagles Meneldor and Androssan circling above. He frowned. _‘We shall drive the enemy straight INTO Imladris.’_

Rivendell was strong, but not invincible. _‘And we have only limited knowledge of the Enemy’s number.’_ The Elf lord released a frustrated sigh. It was believed the orcs were nothing more than small pockets scattered across the Misty Mountains. Still, there was no real way of knowing. And Elrond hated not knowing; he hated moving blind. _‘I would rather have all the facts before me, that we might come up with an informed and rational decision. This is far too brash a move for my liking.’_ Mayhap he ought to consider employing spies, as Thranduil was rumored to practice. The King of the Woodland Realm might not have complete control over Mirkwood, but if a thrush sneezed—he knew about it. 

_‘Should things turn ill, I too may be forced to exercise more reckless means of defense.’_ He resisted the urge to glance at the ring upon his finger. His days on Middle-earth were numbered, was he willing to jeopardize his life to protect a land he would soon depart—a realm that would no longer be his concern? 

Elrond placed his hands within the sleeves of his robe and closed his eyes. The Elf lord stood tall and silent amidst the autumn bustle of Rivendell. His stance remained unyielding, shoulders proud and head held high. Yes, he would risk himself for the sake of Imladris. If not for Imladris, then for those who would remain behind. He would do his duty as he had always done. 

It was duty that bade him accept the ring from Gil-galad, and duty stayed his feet when Celebrían journeyed West. _‘For I am Elrond Peredhil,’_ he wryly reminded himself, ‘ _“great among Elves and Men.”’_

He had the oddest feeling Celebrían was somewhere smiling at him. 

The two eagles were mere specks when Elrond turned and headed towards his quarters. How long had it been since he last held a sword? He chuckled quietly to himself and shook his head. Elladan and Elrohir were in the habit of casually mentioning their father’s lack of upkeep in the art, suggesting perhaps he had grown far too complacent. 

_‘I wonder, what would they think were they to see their sluggish father now?’_

He paused his walk down the open walkway and glanced northward, past the delicately sculpted buildings and blazing autumn treetops. Elladan and Elrohir were somewhere beyond those forested hills, in lands already touched by winter’s frosty hands. If he concentrated hard enough, Elrond knew he would be able to sense the twins’ wild exuberance as they charged off to Valar knew what dangers. 

_‘I wish they were present,’_ he thought, and then scowled affectionately. _‘After all, they **do** seem to enjoy killing things.’_ THAT trait came from Celebrían, he was certain. Though from whether it was gift of Galadriel or Celeborn’s bloodlines Elrond could not say. 

“Forgive me, Lady Galadriel,” he murmured aloud, hoping the Lady was not patrolling hearts and minds at the moment. “I meant no offense.” 

A faint and silvery peal of laughter—so much like that of Celebrían and Arwen—sprang forth from some dark recess of his mind, but the Lady said nothing more. 

Elrond entered the main hall, absently greeting various lords and ladies as he made his way to the stairs. He had just begun his ascent when short, pattering footfalls arrested his attention. Glancing over the railing, the Elf lord caught sight of Merry trotting into the hall. The young hobbit searched the airy room intently; holding the vine Elrond had given him two days prior. 

“Meriadoc,” Elrond called, “may I be of some service to you?” The young hobbit’s countenance brightened considerably. He hastened up the stairs to the Elf lord’s side. _‘He heals swiftly,’_ Elrond thought, noting how the hobbit walked without any sign of limp or pain. 

“Lord Elrond!” Merry paused to catch his breath. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Oh, and so has Erestor, but Bilbo found him first.” 

Elrond’s eyebrows rose in slight amusement. 

“You see, I was doing my exercises like you said I should,” Merry continued as they moved up the stairway, “when I had an idea of sorts.” He took Elrond’s silence as permission to continue. “These vines are very stretchy sir, and I was wondering if they come any bigger.” 

Elrond nodded. “Yes, of course they do. But you, Master Hobbit, are not yet ready to use a thicker band.” 

“I don’t mean for myself,” Merry replied, taking the stairs two at a time in order to match the Elf lord’s long strides. 

Elrond’s grey eyes regarded him curiously. “Then for what purpose?” 

They had reached the top of the stairs. Merry chewed on his bottom lip. “Slingshots.” 

Elrond blinked. “Slingshots?” 

“Yes,” said Merry. “Awful big slingshots. Catapult-like slingshots, if you will.” Words bubbled forth from the hobbit in excited babble. “I have it all planned out! See, we weave these vines into long netting, and then string them all along the borders using even thicker vines. Just like giant slingshots. We can keep them pulled back with ropes, I think. Then the orcs come running down the mountainside, straight into the netting. We chop the rope, the vine snaps forward, and _whoosh!_ the orcs go flying.” 

Elrond was staring at him. Merry felt his face burn crimson. He ducked his head in embarrassment. “Though, like I said, it was only a suggestion. Never mind, I suppose…” He turned to leave, only to be stayed by Elrond’s surprisingly strong hand on his shoulder. To his utter shock, the Elf lord laughed. 

“Meriadoc Brandybuck,” Elrond’s grey eyes danced with surprise and merriment, “you may be our saving grace yet!” 

* * * 

A solitary figure, so small and insignificant a roving eye might easily overlook it, stood amidst the bleak highlands of Pahtoh. Frigid wind blown down from the northern mountain peaks caused even the close-cropped grass blades to shiver. Frodo hung his head. He did not want to look forward—Mordor was ahead of him. He did not want to look backwards—an angry Elf lord awaited him behind. There were mountains to either side of him and terrifying winged beasts above. 

It was akin to walking down an endless corridor lined with doors: each door leading to a different hall. Every time he chose a door, it locked behind him. The hallway became smaller, and the doors became less frequent. Eventually, he was going to run out of doors. 

_‘I keep trying to run away, and it seems I’m only getting closer to the thing I’m trying to run away from.’_

The hobbit unconsciously toyed with the ring about his neck. The hills stretched out in endless waves and lumps before him. The vast sky above left him painfully exposed, snow falling from its thin grey clouds in dusty afterthought. Frodo suddenly felt overwhelmingly tiny. Hobbits were not meant to carry the weight of the world. It was too big and he was too small. 

Frodo sniffled and hastily wiped his eyes. He would continue on to Mordor alone. After all, what else was there to do? Mayhap by going towards it, he would somehow end up further away. The way circumstances had played out so far, there really was no reason to think it impossible. 

The hobbit took one miserable step forward—one miserable step closer to Mordor. Then he took another. _‘One step for Merry.’_ And another. _‘For Pippin.’_ And another, and yet still another. _‘For Sam! For Bilbo!’_ He would walk for them—his dearest friends. He would walk for the Shire. He would walk for those who had hope—even though he was not one of them. 

_‘For Elves and Dwarves and Good Men! For Trees and Flowers, and lazy days in Bag End!’_ Frodo squared his shoulders and scowled fiercely. _‘I can do this. I **will** do this.’_

A dark shape bolted around a boulder some distance ahead and charged straight for him. Frodo turned on his heel with a terrified scream and ran back towards Pahtoh. 

Panic gave his weary legs new strength, yet the creature was faster still. As he crested a hill and caught sight of Pahtoh’s thatched rooftops below, Frodo realized he would never make it. The creature’s paws drummed over the hillside, ragged pants growing louder and more terrifying. Frodo’s own lungs felt as though they would burst. Gasping and choking, he glanced over his shoulder. The shadowed blur leapt. 

Frodo hit the hard-packed ground with a cry of dismay, rolling onto his back and throwing his arms up to protect his face. 

And then the creature licked him. 

“Frodo Hobbit… Frodo… Hobbit!” Ginger-haired Allin fell to the ground beside Frodo, who was being sat on by the cheerful sheepdog Nwahr. The boy took a moment to catch his breath. Nwahr, meanwhile, ceased licking his “prey.” Tongue lolling to the side, he happily thumped his tail against the ground and eyed Frodo proudly. 

“Frodo Hobbit,” said Allin, at last finding himself fully recovered from the mad dash, “you run very fast for a… for a hobbit.” His smooth brow wrinkled in perplexity—he was still not quite sure what to make of these strange “hobbit” creatures. 

Frodo gingerly pushed Nwahr off his chest and sat up. The sheepdog gave him a final triumphant lick before retreating to sit near his boy. “Allin, what are you doing? You nearly frightened me to death!” 

Hair sticking out in defiant tufts, for he had forgotten to put on his woolen cap, Allin smiled cheerfully. “I wished to see you battle the Winged Beast. It was a grand battle, no?” He gazed at the pale blue sky and sighed wistfully. “I saw Sam Hobbit and Pippin Hobbit capture it. Then they rode off into the sky. Whoosh! They rode it far away. Do they ride l’wazoh back to the Home of Hobbits?” 

Frodo’s shoulders sagged. “Allin,” he said quietly, “I don’t think they shall ever return.” 

Allin nodded sagely. “Ah, the Home of Hobbits is very far away. It is sad they will not come back. How are they to receive their tahtowahjez—tattoos?” 

Frodo swallowed painfully and fingered the slender chain around his neck. He did not have the heart to tell Allin Pippin and Sam were most likely dead. Let the boy keep his childhood dreams and heroes’ tales for now. He would lose them soon enough. “When I return to the shire,” said the hobbit, “I will tell them of their awards. Maybe then they’ll fly back for a visit.” 

Allin leapt to his feet and began a peculiar half-hop half-skip of excitement. “And we will have the biggest feast ever! More dancing and singing and food!” The wiry boy stopped his odd dance and looked to Frodo in puzzlement. “Why did they not take you with them?” 

Frodo pushed himself to his feet. “Because,” he slowly replied, not quite managing to mask his misery, “because we must go our separate ways. And now I must bid you farewell too, Allin.” 

“Nay,” said the boy. “For I am coming with you.” 

Nwahr barked. “Yes,” Allin hastily added, “and Nwahr will come too.” 

“No Allin!” Frodo started in alarm. “I’m afraid that can’t happen.” 

Allin drew himself to his full height. “It can. I will be your warrior! That is, unless you wish to be the warrior—though I am taller than you.” 

“Allin—“ 

“We will be great adventurers! We will battle many terrible beasts and face danger as warriors do.” 

“That,” Frodo mumbled dispiritedly, “is what I am afraid of.” 

“—And they will sing songs of us,” the boy continued in delight. “We will earn many tattoos.” He stared dreamily into the distance, no doubt imagining himself a glorious champion. 

Frodo covered his face with a hand. The last thing he needed was to be responsible for the death of a child. “Allin, what about your family? Your friends? Won’t they miss you? What about your sheep?” 

The young boy scowled and kicked half-heartedly at a protruding grass tuft. Frodo decided to try a new tactic. “I will make a deal with you, Allin.” He was instantly rewarded with the boy’s undivided attention. “I need someone—a warrior type, you know—to help me cross this hill.” 

“Me! I can do this!” 

“But,” said the hobbit, “you must go no further. If you protect me during our journey, and go no further, then I will give you my spear. It should be lying somewhere around here. Consider it my gift to you for your courage and kindness.” 

“And bravery?” 

Frodo nodded. “Yes, and bravery.” He hoped Allin would be so swept up by the notion, he would forget the rusty old spear belonged to his village anyways. Thankfully, it worked. 

The ginger-haired boy let out a cry of delight and dashed off to find the spear. As Frodo predicted, it did not lie far. 

*“Vehnay,” said Allin upon returning. Flushed with importance, he put on a grim warrior’s scowl. Frodo felt his lips tugging upward, but managed to scowl and nod fiercely in reply. Nwahr promptly sat back on his haunches and howled, shooting Frodo a toothy canine grin. Though Frodo was not particularly fond of dogs (a dislike which stemmed from the day Farmer Maggot released the hounds on him), he decided Nwahr more than agreeable. 

The two trekked up and over the large, rolling hill. Nwahr darted to and fro, traveling around them in wide circles. The sun reached its zenith in the pale sky and slowly began to slide downward. Pahtoh was not more than a distant memory two hills over. Frodo hoped the occasional dusting of snow stayed as such; the night promised to be chill and bitter as it was. 

Allin hiked in front, carefully leading Frodo around the odd boulder or dip in the ground. Frodo smiled to himself. Observing the gangly, ginger-haired boy, the hobbit found it difficult to believe Allin would one day grow as massive and perhaps as tattooed as his father. _‘Still, he has a strong heart, and a good one. I can see that even now.’_ Frodo would walk to Mordor for Allin, too. 

They reached the hill foot, and Allin lifted the ancient spear above his head in grave salute. “Frodo Hobbit, I wish you a warrior’s journey. May you honor your family and name.” 

Frodo bowed. “Thank you, Allin.” 

“No, no.” The boy lowered the spear and jammed it into the earth. “You are supposed to say, ‘I accept your wishes and offer you strength and courage in return.’ And then I bow, like this—“ curling his hand into a fist, he thrust it across his chest and bowed stiffly, “—and you grip my arm like this.” He grasped the hobbit’s forearm firmly and gave it one resolute shake. 

“Oh,” said Frodo. “Shall we try it again?” 

Allin’s nose wrinkled and his eyebrows knitted together. “I do not think we are supposed to.” 

“Well then, I suppose this is farewell.” Frodo again bowed to the boy. “I will not forget you, Allin son of Atan!” 

Allin nodded miserably. He was going to miss the strange little creatures with furry feet. Nwahr’s furious barking caused both to look up at the hilltop. 

“FRODO BAGGINS! BY MOUNTAIN AND MOLEHILL, WHERE ARE YOU OFF TO?” 

The hobbit was so shocked he nearly toppled over. The long silvery beard, billowing grey cloak, and pointed hat were as familiar to him as the sun. “Gandalf? _Gandalf!”_ Releasing a sobbing laugh, Frodo forgot his weariness and charged straight towards the wizard and his horse. 

Pulling to a halt, Gandalf leapt from the back of his mare with such youthful spring Allin could only gape. Frodo flung himself straight into the wizard’s arms. “I was sure Elrond had you!” His voice came out in muffled sobs, partially muted by the fabric of Gandalf’s robes. “And then the birds! Merry fell… the eagle… Oh Gandalf, I killed them all!” 

“There now, Frodo.” Gandalf amiably patted the sobbing hobbit on his back. “It was a terrible mistake. Do not fret—Merry is quite alive.” 

“Merry is alive?” Frodo pulled his tearstained face out of the wizard’s robes, which smelled distinctly of grass and pipeweed. “Truly, he is? But I saw him fall.” 

A wide smile settled across the wizard’s face, eyes twinkling in merriment. “I assure you, Master Baggins, he is indeed alive. He landed in a tree—though I must admit his choice of trees left much to be desired. Mind you I speak strictly from a rescuer’s point of view. Nonetheless, Merry is alive and on the mend in Rivendell.” 

Frodo blanched at mention of Elrond’s realm. “Rivendell? But Lord Elrond—“ 

“—is terribly embarrassed the situation grew so out of hand,” Gandalf interrupted. “It was all a dreadful mistake.” He ruffled Frodo’s hair affectionately before glancing at Allin. “I see you have made a new friend, but where are Peregrin and Samwise?” 

Frodo’s entire body sagged in defeat. “A giant eagle,” he whispered. “They told me to run… and … and it carried them away…” 

“An eagle? Ah, it must have been Landroval. Elrond sent him to fetch you wayward troublemakers. Masters Gamgee and Took are probably halfway to Rivendell by now.” 

Frodo blinked, and suddenly discovered himself feeling light as a feather. His lungs seemed to expand in pure joy. “They are not dead?” he asked, a bit overwhelmed. Had it all been just a dream? Only a terrible nightmare? 

Gandalf chuckled. “They ought to be quite well by my calculations. But come, we have tarried long enough. We must hasten to Rivendell. Though,” he added, “not too quickly. I would prefer we arrive after the fighting.” 

“Fighting?” Frodo asked as Gandalf hoisted him atop the copper-colored mare. “There is going to be a battle in Rivendell?” 

Gandalf’s bushy eyebrows knit together. “Is there? A battle, you say?” 

Frodo twisted around to look at the wizard. “No, _you_ say. You said there was going to be fighting in Rivendell.” 

“Did I.” Frodo could not discern whether the wizard’s reply was a question or statement. He shook his head, deciding those of immortal standing spent far too much time confusing others. 

“I suppose,” said Gandalf, “you wish to bid that gawking child over there farewell.” He walked the mare closer to Allin. 

Frodo smiled and waved to the boy. “Farewell, Allin! Someday you will be a grand warrior!” 

The ginger-haired boy and his faithful black sheepdog watched the hobbit and wizard gallop from view. Allin pulled his new spear from the ground and shook his head in awe. “They’ll never believe us,” he confided to the dog. “The hobbits defeated the winged beast, gifted me this spear, and then a funny old man—who was not really old—appeared and Frodo Hobbit rode off with him.” He hefted the spear over one shoulder and grinned. “Kell joornay!” 

He began the short trek back to Pahtoh, Nwahr darting to and fro at his side. Shadows lengthened and the sun slipped even lower, but one boy’s dreams and warriors’ tales lasted yet another precious day. 

******* 

Onto the French Book! 

“Vehnay.” _\--‘Venez.’_ [Come.] 

“Kell joornay!” _\--‘Quelle journée!’_ [What a day!] 


	34. When the Bough Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

__**A/N:**  
A couple keen-eyed souls have pointed out to me that Boromir was not blonde. Visions of Boromir as a blonde had me utterly horrified (something is just so wrong about it), and I wondered where I had made that mistake… It then occurred to me I might have described him as “fair.” (Aha!) I use the term “fair” only in the context of complexion. Hence, Boromir is fair and dark-haired, whereas say, Thranduil is fair and golden-haired. Similarly, Arwen is fair and dark-haired, while Glorfindel is fair and golden-haired. Poor Legolas is just fair (it’s up to your imagination to assign him hair and eye color).

**-Character List-**

Lhûn- Thranduil’s eldest son, Heir of Mirkwood. 

Calengaladh- Thranduil’s second son. Brains behind The Spider And Squirrel operation 

Mallos- Thranduil’s third son. Tagged along with Legolas and Calengaladh in said revenge operation, primarily to keep both brothers out of trouble 

Tuilë- Thranduil’s fourth child and Princess of Mirkwood. 

Othon- Mirkwood archer, most likely Legolas’ future brother-in-law 

Legolas 

Thranduil 

Glorfindel 

Gimli 

******** 

Silence reigned in the throne room of the Wood-Elf King. Even the morning rays of sun appeared reluctant to shine upon Thranduil’s halls, opting instead to timidly hide behind the trunks of Mirkwood’s massive beech trees. 

Thranduil sat tall and straight upon the throne, gripping his oaken staff so tightly his knuckles were white. The King’s mouth was drawn into a thin line, and his grey eyes smoldered with rage. Occasionally his nostrils would flare, prompting his eyes to burn brighter, his lips to press firmer, and his grip on the staff to grow tighter. Rage, apparently, came in fits. 

Legolas stood next to Calengaladh and Mallos before the king, their heads slightly bowed and eyes averted in submission. 

They had all been as such for three hours now. No one spoke; no one moved. They barely dared to draw breath. A noticeably subdued atmosphere had settled over the palace, and the usual bustle and chorus of morning was strangely absent. The four Elves were not disturbed, though Legolas sensed Lhûn and Tuilë waited anxiously beyond the closed doors. 

Legolas had been frightened many times in his life. As an elfling, he had been frightened of the dungeons and that Thranduil would disappear as his mother did. He had been frightened the first time he saw an orc, and again the moments before he first killed one. He had been frightened upon receiving his first serious injury, and the various other occasions some ill befell one of his siblings. To be scared was not something Legolas particularly enjoyed—he found it more annoying if anything—but it was a feeling he understood and knew how to combat. 

Now he received his first inkling of terror. _‘I should have made for the trees and given the sack to Calengaladh. Why must I always follow him? Why? His antics only draw the King’s ire, and already am I perfectly capable of doing that on my own.’_

With some effort, he managed to push aside the strange and uncontrollable panic that seemed intent on forcing him to flee. Visions of the palace guards dragging him back to Thranduil quickly halted the urge to run. Legolas frowned, disgusted he even entertained such thoughts. He would remain and accept his fate. Besides, the doors were probably locked. 

The more time Thranduil spent attempting to control his anger, the greater it grew. His sons remained silent, knowing full well a single word or gesture would unleash the King’s wrath. It was better to patiently await the storm to break of its own accord. Unfortunately, the storm showed no signs of immediate release and merely kept building. And if one of them—be it father or sons—did not take action soon, the King’s fury was likely to obliterate them all. 

Calengaladh never had been a patient one. He cast sidelong glances to Legolas and Mallos. Both realized his intentions at once, and sent him equal looks of pleading. 

Mallos gave his head a barely perceptible shake. _‘Nay Calengaladh! Do not!’_

_‘NO!’_ Legolas’ eyes widened slightly. _‘You would not dare be so foolish!’_

Taking a deep breath, Calengaladh lifted his head. Legolas stiffened and Mallos winced. Mirkwood’s second prince met the gaze of his father, and promptly forgot what he was going to say. Words would have mattered little though, for Thranduil’s roar drowned out all else. 

“BY THE GRACE OF ILUVATAR, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” 

Outside the throne room, Tuilë plastered herself against the wall and Lhûn took two full paces backwards. Glorfindel, who was sleepily wandering the Elvenking’s Halls and wondering why everyone was so morose, reacted as any full-blooded warrior would: he reflexively spun and punched whatever it was that followed behind him. Poor Galion never knew what hit him. 

Thranduil’s face flushed decidedly purple. “Again, I ask: What were you thinking? _Look at me when I am speaking to you!”_ Three lowered heads immediately snapped up. “Do you even begin to fathom how reckless, irresponsible—not to mention _purely idiotic_ —your actions were? Not only did you disregard nighttime safety and protocol, but your behavior was no better than that of spoilt elflings. And for what reason? Because you sought revenge against a Dwarf. A _DWARF_!” 

The three sons of Thranduil cringed. Heads sank even lower as the Elven-king’s voice pounded over them in blow after merciless blow. _“I said look at me when I am speaking to you!”_ Thranduil’s eyes leapt and flared, fury dancing openly across his face. “Never, _ever,_ have I been embarrassed so! You three have shamed this House! I thank the Valar your grandsire was not here to witness such disgrace.” He glowered, foul mood gathering within the room like thick smoke. “Well do you know I do not tolerate such appalling conduct amongst my warriors.” Two fiery grey eyes fell upon the dark-haired prince. 

“Mallos.” 

“My Lord,” Mallos managed to quietly voice, guilt and shame written plainly across his fair countenance. Though widely regarded as the most sensible of the royal family, he had propensity to take criticisms—those voiced against him in particular—to heart. 

“I _know_ you have a better head on your shoulders than that of which you demonstrated this eve. In the future, _it would be wise were you to heed its counsel._ Of all my children, I least expect such conduct from you.” 

“Forgive me, my liege.” Mallos remained remarkably calm, though his face drained of all color. Although it pained Legolas to see his brother so, he felt a stab of pride that Mallos met Thranduil’s gaze. 

“Do not disappoint me again.” Mallos mutely bowed his head. Thranduil stood and crossed his arms over his chest, lining Calengaladh within his sights. 

“Calengaladh.” 

Mirkwood’s second prince stiffened and tilted his chin in slight defiance. “My Lord.” 

Mallos, though still shaken, closed his eyes and resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. _‘Do not argue with him, Calengaladh,’_ he silently pleaded. _‘Keep your temper in check.’_

Thranduil slowly ascended the throne, bearing down upon golden-haired prince. “I take it this idea was of your making, was it not?” 

“It was, my Lord.” 

Thranduil’s voice carried throughout the room like the cold shiver of unsheathed blades. “I have tolerated your mischief in the past, Calengaladh. I will tolerate it no more. Too often have you put yourself and others in harm’s way.” 

“I have not committed a prank in years,” the golden-haired prince protested, a little too heatedly for Thranduil’s liking. “And I endangered no one! It was—“ 

“You take your younger brothers past our boundaries—,” Thranduil hissed, coming to stand directly in front of his son, “—in the dead of night, no less, and you believe it was out of harm’s way?” 

“They came along willingly, I did not force them! And—“ 

“Do NOT take that tone with me!” Thranduil bellowed. Jaw clenched, Calengaladh dropped his head, though not before Thranduil caught the sullen flash of rebellion in his eyes. “You risked your life and that of your brothers, so that you might dump two sacks of forest creatures upon a Dwarf? Calengaladh, need I remind you of your age? It is long past time you start acting it! Despite the amusement you may find in these ridiculous stunts, I assure you: You succeed at nothing more than making an utter fool of yourself!” 

Calengaladh flushed. 

“Such conduct,” Thranduil continued, “is unacceptable and appalling from one of your station. I will _not_ tolerate behavior of the sort from Mirkwood’s Heir. Do I make myself clear?” 

Still a pale shade of crimson, Calengaladh mumbled in reply. 

“I repeat,” Thranduil snapped, “do I make myself clear?” 

Calengaladh straightened and looked past the King’s shoulder. “Yes, My Lord.” 

“Good.” Thranduil slowly turned his head so that his gaze fell upon Legolas. 

“Legolas.” 

_‘Why has he left me for last?’_ the youngest prince wondered in alarm. “My Lord?” 

“We shall continue our conversation shortly. _Alone_.” 

Legolas swallowed. “As the king wills it.” 

Thranduil pivoted gracefully on his heel and stalked back to the throne. He studied the trio several tense moments before again speaking. “Herein,” he stated imperiously, seeming to tower over them from atop the carved chair, “rests my judgment: Henceforth the three of you are stripped of all rank and relieved of any duties not pertaining directly to the title of ‘Prince.’ It will be as such until I see fit to reinstate them.” 

Mallos’ eyes widened, Calengaladh’s jaw dropped, and Legolas felt his entire being sink in misery. 

“Secondly,” Thranduil continued, “as it is also apparent your diplomatic skills are severely lacking, I shall have Taurmil organize a rotating schedule so that you each may attend court during various treaties and trade agreements. I believe the Woodsmen are set to parley with us in two weeks’ time.” 

Legolas felt Calengaladh’s shoulders sag. Though Legolas was not overly fond of the political aspects of ruling, Calengaladh loathed the encounters with every ounce of his being. A militant thinker, more accustomed to being obeyed without question, Calengaladh was not one to readily compromise on any front. Attending court would be pure torture. 

“Third, you are to aid the innkeeper, whose lodgings you destroyed, in the rebuilding and refurbishing of his inn. Tell him cost is of no consequence, for _you_ shall be more than willing to compensate his losses.” 

Quick glances of sympathy were tossed in the direction of Mallos, whose face contorted in visible horror. Woodcraft was not his specialty, and he had yet to recover from the collapse of the birdhouse he built—though the incident occurred well before either Legolas or Tuilë was born. The King and Queen originally told the distraught young elfling that the bird found a bigger home and flew away. Then Calengaladh, who was at the tender and know-it-all age of 40, remarked that if the bird really had escaped in time, it probably would have taken its wing with it. Orodil, the since-fallen Heir of Mirkwood, had not been fast enough in clamping a hand over Calengaladh’s mouth. 

Mallos still refused to craft anything but arrows. 

“And last, you shall write letters of apology to the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, regarding your assault against one of their kin.” The Elven-king’s face darkened in warning as the three exchanged looks of utter disbelief. “Were these times less dangerous, I would bid you walk to those forsaken hills and personally apologize.” 

He sat back down upon the throne and coolly folded his hands across his lap. “That is all, for the time being. Mallos, you are to inform Celebdir he shall be taking over command of your unit. Calengaladh, you are to inform Othon—“ 

“Othon!” Calengaladh could not contain his outrage. “You cannot possibly be serious! With the exception of the Palace Guards, I hold the entirety of Mirkwood’s forces—Othon can barely command his own bowstring! Of all the possible candidates, Othon is least capable of—“ 

Thranduil held up a hand. “Enough! That is all,” he repeated in icy tones. “You are dismissed.” 

Calengaladh clenched his jaw, lithe frame shaking in fury. Legolas almost expected his teeth to crack. Thankfully, the golden-haired prince held his tongue. The three Elves bowed low before the king and turned to leave. 

“Legolas.” 

Legolas froze mid-stride. 

“I would speak with you.” 

* * * 

Tuilë hurried to her brothers’ side they moment the exited the throne room. Lhûn regarded them in disapproval and curiosity, but crossed his arms over his chest and remained leaning against the wall. 

“Where is Legolas?” Tuilë asked, smooth brow wrinkling in concern. 

“Being devoured by the King, most likely,” Calengaladh muttered in dark reply. 

Tuilë put her hands on her hips. “The three of you went too far this time, Calengaladh. Adar had no choice but to react thus. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” 

Calengaladh threw up his hands. “‘ _This time_ ,’ she says, ‘ _This time’_ … There has never even been a previous time! If I desired further lecture, _dear sister_ ,” he spoke through gritted teeth, flashing her a brittle smile, “I would return to the throne room.” 

Mirwood’s princess pointed her noise in the air. “Do not take your anger out on me. Whatever punishment you received, I do not doubt you deserved it.” 

Mallos, who had until then been regarding Lhûn in brooding silence, spoke before Calengaladh had chance to retort. “I, for one, wish to know why Adar referred to Calengaladh as Mirkwood’s Heir.” 

Calengaladh blinked, frowning as Thranduil’s words came back to him. Further bickering immediately ceased. 

* * * 

Glorfindel hoped Thranduil would not require the services of Galion that day, though the Elf was a rather important member of the household. The Imladris lord was not sure how to go about explaining to the King that he had accidentally put Thranduil’s chief butler out of commission. Though the old Elf now rested comfortably in the infirmary, doubtless he would be off his feet for the remainder of the day. 

Glorfindel grimaced and gave his head a slight shake. Throwing up the hands to deflect a jab came instinctively. How was it Galion lacked that instinct? _‘I suppose that is why he is a butler and not a warrior.’_

Continuing his leisurely walk down the airy halls, Glorfindel could not help but admire the skill and craftsmanship apparent throughout the palace. The walls were carved in such a likeness to mimic the sight and texture of tree bark, or depicted various forest creatures and scenes of lore. Protruding chutes and formations were carved to resmble the very trees themselves. Soft light from countless golden lanterns illuminated Thranduil’s halls, and Glorfindel found they lent a relaxed and peaceful atmosphere. Woven and dyed tapestries hung from the ceiling gave the simulation of a forest canopy; slender handrails and stairs were more reminiscent of tree limb than stone. 

Pausing to dip his fingers in the silver waters of one of many fountains, Glorfindel was surprised to hear birdsong echoing throughout the strange forest. _‘Cavern,’_ he corrected himself. Were it not for the barely-perceptible echo and murmur of stone, he would be able to forget he was within the mountain entirely. 

He wandered in quiet marvel until the scenery took on more regal tones. _‘I must near the throne room,’_ he thought, and hoped Thranduil was in the mood to be bothered. Intuition, however, told him otherwise. 

Trotting lightly up a wide stair, Glorfindel was not surprised to find the palace virtually abandoned. Two guards exchanged a glance of pity as he passed them, and had he missed that, there was the omnipotent wrath that seemed to flow down the main walkway in waves. 

Glorfindel idly wondered whether Legolas would be traveling back to Rivendell in one piece or two. He paused at the top of the stair. _‘Mayhap it would be wise were I not to interupt. At least, not for the time being.’_ He would wait outside the throne room, requesting an audience with the King as would any other. 

He had nearly reached the end of the large hallway, when the pervading silence was broken by an accusatory shout. 

“You are a coward, Lhûn!” 

With a resigned sigh, Glorfindel came to a halt. He would most likely be heard if he retreated, unless he tiptoed (and he had never been one to sneak around). Should he continue on, he would interrupt a private argument and cause embarrassment for all parties involved. And from what little experience he had with the House of Oropher, it did not deal well with embarrassment. Attempting to ignore the raised voices, Glorfindel turned and began a thorough study of the wall carvings. _‘At least,’_ he thought, forcefully willing himself to be optimistic, _‘these walls are of some interest.’_

* * * 

Lhûn whirled on his heel, eyes blazing, and stalked towards Calengaladh. 

“Cease this, both of you!” Mallos immediately jumped between the two, one hand pressed against Calengaladh’s chest while the other held off Lhûn. 

“Speak naught which you know nothing of,” Lhûn spat, eyes locking with Calengaladh. Calengladh met the challenge and glared back. 

Mallos gripped Calengaladh’s tunic and unsuccessfully tried to angle himself between the dueling stares. 

“You are a coward,” Calengaladh repeated. “You would abandon Mirkwood, leaving the rest of us to fight for you. Well, fine, I say. FINE. Cowards and traitors have no place within this realm.” 

Lhûn tightened and almost looked as though he would lunge. Holding off one brother, Mallos realized, would be difficult but manageable; two was out of the question. 

“I thought you would be much pleased by the news,” Lhûn coldly replied. “For is this not what you have always wanted—to be Crown Prince of Mirkwood?” 

_“Lhûn!”_ Mallos hissed. 

Calengaladh balled his fists. “Not like this! I did not wish for it this way.” 

Lhûn’s eyes narrowed, words tempered by hot anger spilling from his mouth before he could stop them. “Then perhaps you wished to find me dead on the battlefield, as befell Orodil? I am sure luck sides with you in the matter; Mirkwood seems to lose an Heir as price for nearly all great battles.” 

Calengaladh blanched. All turned to stare at the Crown Prince and sickening silence ensued. 

Lhûn’s eyes flickered in horror and regret upon realizing his words. “Calengaladh, I—“ 

Shoving aside Mallos’ hand, Calengladh turned stiffly and departed without a backwards glance. The silence in the room remained unbroken, save the occasional thunder of Thranduil’s voice beyond the throne room doors. 

Lhûn washed a hand over his face and released an uneven breath. He had not meant to be so cruel, but Calengaladh’s comment had cut deeply and he lashed out accordingly. It was particularly painful because he constantly asked himself the same question. _Was_ he a coward? “I am sorry,” he softly began, looking pleadingly to his remaining siblings. 

Mallos, face white with anger, slowly backed away. “You bitter, self-absorbing cad,” he spat, voice shaking slightly. “I hope your ship sinks on the way to Valinor.” Spinning on his heel, the dark-haired prince departed in the direction Calengaladh had taken. 

Lhûn sighed wearily. “Will you leave me now too, my sister?” 

Thranduil’s fair daughter managed a strained smile. “It is you who are leaving, Lhûn, not I.” She gave his arm a gentle pat as she brushed by him, skirts rustling softly. Lhûn almost wished she had slapped him instead. 

Resting his forehead against the cold stone of the wall, Lhûn closed his eyes and clenched his fists. _‘Why did I not depart ages ago? Why did I not journey with Nimlasse? I should have remained by her side, I should have left ere the forest grew so dark. I should have…”_

Glorfindel cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly. Some conversations were not meant to be overheard, and that had been one of them. 

Lhûn started and immediately straightened, regaining composure honed from years of court life. His eyes narrowed in annoyance upon recognizing Glorfindel. “My Lord Glorfindel.” 

Glorfindel bowed. “Prince Lhûn.” 

“Let us skip pleasantries,” Lhûn said with frown. His eyes strayed towards the throne room doors. “The King is… indisposed… at present. I know naught what it is you would speak to him about, and to be honest I do not quite care.” 

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. Lhûn ignored him. 

“If I were you,” the prince continued, “that little Dwarf would be my primary concern.” 

“Gimli?” 

Lhûn waved a hand dismissively. “I do not know what it is called. Nevertheless, there was an incident last eve involving my younger brothers and the Naugrim. They unleashed squirrels and spiders upon your Dwarf, and apparently Legolas managed to engage it in fisticuffs.” 

Glorfindel lifted his eyes towards the ceiling. Why, oh why, must he travel back to Rivendell with them? Lhûn grimaced: he would depart Mirkwood for the Grey Havens at Glorfindel’s departure, and would be traveling over the Misty Mountains with the remaining eastern scouting party. 

“The Naugrim was left by itself in the inn. It was not our concern, and we know naught what became of it.” 

Glorfindel dashed off towards the stables with a groan. 

* * * 

The throne room doors closed with a reverberating bang. Legolas suddenly found himself feeling extremely claustrophobic. Had the room always looked so dungeon-esque, or was he merely imagining things? 

Torchlight gleamed off the Elven-king’s golden hair and gem-studded collar. Thranduil’s face remained hard and impassive, and Legolas was unable to discern whether the ensuing tongue-lashing would be courtesy Thranduil his Father or Thranduil King of Mirkwood. That Thranduil remained seated upon his throne suggested the latter. 

“Approach.” The Elven-king held forth a hand and beckoned him closer. A bone-snapping chill permeated the room; the lanterns dimmed. 

Thranduil’s lips quirked in anger. “Legolas, I do not even know where to begin.” His eyes swept over the Elf prince and narrowed in disgust. “Look at yourself. _Just look at yourself!”_

Legolas was suddenly painfully aware of his re-growing eyebrows, as well as the split lip and bruised jaw—courtesy of Gimli. He unconsciously licked the lip and clasped his hands behind his back, running a thumb over the bruised and swollen knuckles. 

“There is no excuse for such behavior—NONE. And what is more,” Thranduil’s voice raised several notches of fury, “You _know_ this. We should not even be having this conversation! Well do you know the proper conduct demanded of you. I will not waste my breath lecturing—I am _not_ your nursemaid, though I now have ample cause to believe you are still in need of one!” 

Legolas flushed. 

Thranduil took a moment to compose himself. When he again spoke, his voice carried the sharp commanding notes of a king. “You are to report to Captain Daelir for re-assignment by noon tomorrow. The deaths of Finalor and Ingolo have left us short two guards; I expect you will fill one of their positions.” 

Legolas took a deep breath and steeled himself for the oncoming battle. “I cannot, My Lord. We depart for Imladris tomorrow morning.” 

“Nay Legolas. Glorfindel departs for Imladris. You do not.” 

“I am obligated to journey with him.” 

“And what,” Thranduil demanded imperiously, “of your duties to Mirkwood? You have more pressing duties to fulfill beneath these leaves. You are a prince of this realm, Legolas. By blood and birthright are you bound to this land. I will not allow you to forsake your duties, simply because you have taken a fancy to foolish adventure!” 

Legolas’ eyes flashed with indignation. “It is _not_ a foolish adventure!” He winced inwardly at the childish sound of his protest. 

Thranduil ignored the remark. “It was your charge to inform Lord Elrond of Gollum’s escape, and then return to Mirkwood. At no time were you granted leave to pursue ludicrous side endeavors.” 

“It is significantly more than a ‘ludicrous side endeavor,’ and I will not be sorely missed,” argued Legolas. “I am but the youngest prince—my presence is not required to continue running the kingdom.” 

“This is not a question of whether or not you shall be missed! This is of your negligence to your land and kin. I will not allow such irresponsible action, Legolas. It is disgraceful, especially coming from a son of mine.” 

Legolas balled his fists. “Adar!” he exploded, throwing up his hands, “Have you any idea how humiliating it was to announce to all—EVERY RACE—of Gollum’s escape? And, even worse, that we were unable to recapture him? In our own forest, Father! Beneath our very own trees!” He released a sigh of frustration. “Gollum’s safekeeping was so much more important than we even dared believe. But I was offered chance to redeem us; a chance to prove myself and the strength of our kin. I can make a difference! Perhaps this does not amend our loss of Gollum, but mayhap it begins to make some reparation.” 

Fury brought Thranduil to his feet. “And you thought,” he roared, causing the lantern light to shiver and quake, “your life a worthy trade for the loss of Gollum? Legolas, when will you learn you do not need to prove yourself? What more would you strive to achieve?” 

“I—“ Legolas began heatedly. “What?” Had Thranduil just complimented him? Completely caught off-guard, the young Elf faltered. 

“You will not leave this realm,” Thranduil concluded, taking full advantage of the other’s confusion and seizing control of the conversation. “I forbid it.” 

Legolas quickly regained balance. “Already have I pledged myself. To retract would only further damage Mirkwood’s honor. I cannot go back on my word. I will not.” 

Thranduil glowered, face growing pinched and white save two spots of crimson upon his cheeks. He swiftly ascended the throne. The Elven-king’s wrath hit Legolas like an icy fist, and he unconsciously stepped backwards before realizing his retreat. It took every ounce of willpower to stand his ground. 

Thranduil stood, tall and straight before him, grey eyes ablaze. “Do you have ANY idea what you have done?” 

Legolas, with great effort, lifted his chin. “Yes.” He was silently grateful his voice remained steady. Though as tall as his father, he felt extremely small. 

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed dangerously and locked with his son’s. “ _And do you have **any** idea,”_ he vehemently hissed, “ ** _what_** _you are about to embark upon?”_

Legolas felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Unable to break eye contact, his defiance wavered. “It will… It will be a dark and shadowed journey.” 

Thranduil released a bitter snort. “Is _that_ how Elrond termed it? Then let us give the Noldo Lord credit, my son, for in this at least he does not deceive.” 

Legolas froze in alarm. To the best of his knowledge, Thranduil had never shown open disdain for the Lord of Imladris—at least, not in front of him. This was uncharted territory, and, Legolas sensed, exceedingly dangerous. 

He tensed as Thranduil brushed past him and headed towards the doors. “Come,” the golden-haired king curtly instructed, not bothering to see whether Legolas followed. He could sense Legolas warily gauging his movements, as though he were some strange beast stumbled upon while patrolling the denser tracts of Mirkwood. “I would have you view a piece of this… ‘darkness and shadow.’” 

Lhûn immediately drew himself upright as the throne room doors opened. “Where are your brothers?” Thranduil asked, eyes sweeping about the room. 

Lhûn could not fully disguise his flinch. “They took their leave some time ago,” he said quietly. “I know naught of their whereabouts.” 

Thranduil regarded him sharply, but knew better than to interfere with the private squabbles of his sons. Lhûn, in particular, resented such intrusions. “Attend to my duties until we return. I shall not be long. Taurmil and Belegir will provide ample assistance if necessary, and if you are not kept too busy assisting the refugees with their lodgings, please review the new Dorwinian contracts. They are on my desk in the study.” 

Lhûn bobbed his head in acquiescence. 

“And Lhûn, I trust you shall resolve whatever crossed between you and your siblings before my return?” 

Lhûn stiffened, a pained expression momentarily clouding his fair features, and then collected himself. “Of course,” he replied with indifference. Ignoring Legolas’ questioning gaze, he bowed low and departed into the throne room. 

A chilly silence followed Thranduil as he and Legolas marched though the caverns. Inhabitants of the palace instinctively gave them wide berth. The Elven-king glanced at Legolas, whose brow was furrowed in agitation and concern. 

His son’s inquisitive nature would outweigh fear of angering Thranduil, ‘ _Any minute,’_ Thranduil decided. 

Legolas’ frown deepened. He opened his mouth to speak. “It is for Lhûn to tell,” Thranduil stated firmly, “and Lhûn alone.” 

* * * 

Gimli’s diminutive fire lent small warmth to his otherwise frigid morning. The Elves had managed to disappear before the enraged innkeeper pounded down the door. While Thranduil and his sons exited the window, Gimli pointedly asked just what, exactly, was he to tell the innkeeper? Thranduil had turned, glared, and sarcastically suggested the Dwarf, “Tell him you were attacked by orcs.” It was purely coincidental, Gimli decided, that his knees gave way under the Elf’s gaze and the retort, “Elves might be so stupid as to believe that, but he will not,” froze on his tongue. 

Thus the innkeeper discovered him: utterly alone amidst an entire room of wreckage. There had been a lot of shouting, and then Gimli was promptly thrown out. 

He took refuge at the very fringe of the forest. The inn was still within sight, and he dared not venture further into the unsettling eaves of Mirkwood. 

Blowing onto his hands, Gimli held them before the flames. He was cold, hungry, and bone-tired. Furthermore, he was being blamed for something not even his fault. Not _entirely_ his fault. 

He fished around in his provision pack until he found a strip of dried venison. That it tasted slightly of pipeweed only added to his irritation. The Dwarf gnawed at the strip, foul mood growing all the while. 

He noticed the innkeeper walking to a large woodpile stacked near the inn’s side, axe in hand. The innkeeper scowled at him. Gimli scowled back. Reaching for his own axe, the Dwarf made a show of effortlessly hoisting it over his shoulder. 

His axe was bigger. 

The innkeeper’s scowl deepened, and he hurriedly finished his task without casting Gimli another glance. A smug wave of victory surged through the Dwarf. 

Gimli settled back down beside his meager fire and again tackled the venison. Dawn broke at last, pink and purple streaks contrasting deeply with the forest’s dusky tree trunks. He had nearly slipped into a doze when the distinct cadence of hoof beats reached his ears. Scrambling to his feet, the Dwarf immediately went for his axe and peered down the dimly lit path winding towards the inn. 

The last thing he wanted to see was another Elf, which, of course, was exactly what he did see. The rider waved to him. Gimli did not feel inclined to wave back. 

“A fair dawn to you, Gimli son of Glóin!” Glowing with the exuberance of his ride, Glorfindel brought his steed to a halt and gracefully dismounted. The golden-haired Elf smiled brightly, appearing greatly relieved to see the son of Glóin. Gimli could not say the same. 

“What do you want?” came the Dwarf’s surly response. He was in no mood for polite formalities. And if Glorfindel made further ornate comments regarding morning or weather, Gimli had more than a few creative suggestions as to where the Elf lord might put them. 

Glorfindel stood at a safe distance, smile wavering slightly. “Master Dwarf, if you would be so kind as to put down your axe…” 

Gimli glanced at the axe blade, noticing his reflection in its silvery surface. Dried blood was ringed around his nose and small bits clung to his beard. There was a distinctly fist-shaped bruise on his temple. No, he did not feel inclined to put down the axe. 

“Gimli.” Glorfindel’s face belied genuine regret. “I heard some of what occurred last night from Prince Lhûn.” 

The Dwarf growled and muttered unintelligibly in Dwarven. 

“I was told there was a tavern near this inn, though it is closer to the Lake-town settlement. By your leave, Master Dwarf, I would purchase you a warm meal and perhaps some mead—if you were to find it agreeable.” 

Gimli considered the Elf lord’s offer and lowered his axe. What harm could come of it? After all, a meal was a meal, and nothing smoothed over past discrepancies quite like a mug of ale. “Very well, Glorfindel of Imladris.” 

Glorfindel’s countenance brightened considerably. “Come then, son of Glóin. We shall fetch your pony and—“ 

“I will walk,” Gimli flatly declared. The morning was proving bad enough; he didn’t need to make it worse by clambering atop a horse. 

Glorfindel knew better than to argue. 

Turning to gather his things, Gimli found himself under the shrewd gaze of a second golden-haired Elf. “Great Smiths!” he swore, nearly stumbling backwards into the tiny campfire. Thranduil coolly nudged his steed forward. Much to Gimli’s displeasure, Legolas also emerged from the trees. 

“Lord Glorfindel, Master Dwarf.” Thranduil acknowledged each of them. Neither said anything in reply, and Gimli thought Glorfindel appeared mildly apprehensive. A cold and stony silence ensued, broken only by dry leaves skipping over the trail. Gimli fumed inwardly at the Wood-Elf King. Not only was Thranduil the monster that had thrown Gimli’s father into the dungeons, but he was also responsible for the creation of Legolas as well. 

“Mount your pony, Master Dwarf.” 

It took Gimli a fair amount of effort not to automatically obey the Sindar lord’s command. The desire to comply sprang up almost reflexively. Gimli wondered how the Elven-king did it. 

Thranduil’s fair face darkened. “Did you not hear me?” 

“I did,” Gimli replied. He looped his thumbs through his belt. “But I do not find that reason enough to do so.” 

Legolas, who had been pointedly gazing off into the forest so as to avoid acknowledging anyone, turned to watch the unfolding scene with curiosity. This was going to be interesting. _‘Let the Dwarf try and worm its way out of this one.’_

Thranduil’s grey eyes narrowed and took a steel-colored hue. Trees stopped rustling. The morning sun slipped behind a low-lying cloud and refused to come out. Even Glorfindel was impressed. “We are going for a ride,” the Elven-king said with deliberate slowness. “Mount your pony.” An unnatural gust of wind sprang up from nowhere Gimli could discern, and the flames of his campfire suddenly extinguished. Upon its passing, wispy tendrils of blue smoke slithered and curled delicately into the air. 

Gimli half-suppressed a shiver. Dawn ought to make the forest lighter—not darker. And where had his fire gone? Had he been better acquainted with Elves, he would have noticed Legolas’ eyes widen and glimmer with grudging awe and admiration, or Glorfindel’s grim appreciation of the Sindar lord’s power. These Gimli missed, but he was not so foolish as to disregard powerful displays of authority when he saw them. He was acutely aware of whose realm he resided in. _‘I suppose,’_ Gimli decided, _‘he could demand far worse of me.’_ Getting on a horse suddenly seemed a trivial matter. 

Gimli secured his axe into his belt and with help of Glorfindel, began gathering his things. Thranduil was content to sit imperiously atop his bay-colored steed, eyeing the Dwarf’s progress in that unnerving Elvish way Gimli loathed. 

The atmosphere over the company began shifting so drastically Gimli found himself emotionally drained and at nerves’ end. One moment, the sun would shine and the trees would sway pleasantly in the autumn wind. The next, it would grow unexpectedly dark and bitter, in imitation of Thranduil’s earlier mood—though not quite as powerful. Then a leaf would move, or a squirrel would emit some chatter, and the shadows would flicker and dissolve into brightness. This went on for several minutes—bright to dark, ice to sun, until Gimli very nearly felt insane. 

The strange shifting continued until Thranduil shot the youngest prince an irritated look, which clearly said, ‘ _Stop it.’_

Legolas managed to look more indignant than sheepish, though the drastic shifting immediately ceased. 

Gimli mounted his fat pony with deliberate nonchalance, determined to make it look as though the ride was completely his choice. Glorfindel almost mistook Thranduil’s muted sigh of exasperation for his own. _“They are each of them bad as the other,”_ the Elven-king hissed under his breath. As Thranduil was not in the habit of muttering, and spoke only what he wished to be heard, Glorfindel could not help but wonder for whom the words were intended. 

Thranduil tightened his grip on the reins. “Master Dwarf, are you ready to proceed?” Gimli nodded, knowing full well he would be going whether prepared or not. Thranduil merely humored him. Gimli noticed all three Elven steeds bore reins, furthering his growing suspicion that Legolas had been showing off during the scouting party’s journey. 

“Lord Glorfindel?” 

Glorfindel knotted the final rein, securely tethering Gimli’s pony to his own steed, and looked to Thranduil. 

“May I ask what you are doing?” 

“Ensuring Gimli’s mount does not escape should she decide to bolt,” Glorfindel replied. 

“The Dwarf,” Legolas cheerily remarked, “cannot ride.” 

Gimli took satisfaction in knowing he was responsible for the Elf’s split lip and bruised jaw. Thranduil snapped something to his son in Elvish, and though Legolas’ eyes flashed, he made no further comments. 

“Lord Glorfindel,” Thranduil again addressed the Imladris Elf, “your presence is not required upon this journey. I would ask that you return to my Halls.” 

Glorfindel firmly shook his head. “Gimli is my charge, and I do not think you wish to have him tied to your horse.” 

Thranduil’s eyes flicked to Legolas, and for one horrifying moment, the thoughts of both Dwarf and Elven prince were one and the same: _‘He would not dare.’_

Thankfully, Thranduil was wise enough to recognize a bad idea when he saw one. “I shall tie him to my tack if necessary.” 

Glorfindel blinked. What was Thranduil up to? “My Lord, I must protest. Gimli is my charge and I will see to his welfare.” 

Under normal circumstances, Gimli would have promptly informed Glorfindel the Elf was not, in any way, “in charge” of him. However, when the alternative was to ride with the Elven-king, Gimli preferred Glorfindel’s claims any day. 

Thranduil eyed the Noldor lord in chilly disapproval. “Very well,” he said at last, upon realizing the Elf of Rivendell would not be dissuaded. “Follow me.” 

Glorfindel sensed the other’s displeasure but could make neither heads nor tails of it. He shook his head and tugged gently on the reins, wishing he were better acquainted with the mind of Thranduil. 

They fell into a swift and silent pace, traveling invisible paths known only to the Elves of Mirkwood. Thranduil led, and as the forest grew darker and less hospitable, Legolas dropped back to the rearguard position. From what Glorfindel could discern, they headed south and slightly to the west, but to what destination he could not say. 


	35. Journey to Darkness and Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

__**A/N** :  
This chapter contains some slightly graphic content. I felt a little funny upping the rating on account of a forest depiction, but a warning of sorts seemed in order. No blood, no gore, no violence. Just big, scary TREES. *Woooooooo* Okay, okay. But in all seriousness, I would advise skipping over that section if you’re a little squeamish.

**-Character List-**

Lhûn- Thranduil’s eldest. Heir of Mirkwood. Leaving Middle-earth. 

Calengaladh- Thranduil’s second son. Soon-to-be Heir of Mirkwood. 

Mallos- Thranduil’s third son 

Tuilë- Thranduil’s fourth child. Princess of Mirkwood 

Othon- Mirkwood archer. Most likely Legolas’ future brother-in-law 

*Orodil- Former Heir of Mirkwood and firstborn child of Thranduil. Ran off to command Falathrim forces (under the Noldor) at Dagorlad. Slain during the Last Alliance 

Oropher- Founding Father of the Greenwood, himself. Also slain during Last Alliance. Poor guy. 

Ilwë & Nimium- Thranduil’s mother and sister, respectively. Fell during the War of Sauron and the Elves (1697 S.A.). 

Gil-galad- “Gil-galad was an Elven-king…” Noldor High King during Last Alliance. Gave his ring of power to Elrond (who was his conscript) before falling in battle. 

Thranduil- “Thranduil is an Elven-king…” Yes, well, he should have his own song… 

Glorfindel- Slayer of Balrogs. Went to Mandos. Returned from the dead. (And you thought Gandalf was good…) Was The Real Elf who saved Frodo at the Ford. Beleaguered captain of Rivendell and leader of the Eastern Scouting Party. 

Legolas- Object of most fangirls’ affection. Rumor has it he’s in the upcoming ‘Pirates of the Carribean’ with Johnny Depp. (Er, wait a minute, that’s not right…) 

Gimli- One Dwarf among the masses. Somebody give him a hug. 

_And, of course, Happy Reading!_

******* 

Mallos wandered the outer grounds of Mirkwood in pensive moodiness. His restless feet brought him at last to the training grounds. Several groups of novices were under strict supervision at the archery range; first year warriors were running through age-old spear drills. If he listened closely enough, Mallos knew he would be able to discern the bend and rustle of tree branches as off-duty scouts honed their canopy-traversing techniques. 

The dark-haired Elf surveyed the grounds as he strode through, acknowledging various weapons masters and former training partners with sharp inclinations of the chin. Knowing Calengaladh’s habits and temper, Mallos decided his brother had retreated to the older and deserted section of the fields. Leaving the carefully groomed training grounds, Mallos headed towards the unkempt and tangled fields of previous years. A solitary figure moving deftly amidst dilapidated sparring bags caught his attention. 

As Mallos suspected, he found Calengaladh taking out his frustrations on a weathered, sand-filled sparring bag, which was suspended from a thick tree bough. Spear blade flashing white in the dim Mirkwood sunlight, Calengaladh spun and thrust the spear butt into the bag. Mallos leaned against a tree trunk and observed his brother in quiet appreciation. Calengaladh always had been particularly skilled with the weapon—a source of envy on Mallos’ part during his younger years. 

Calengaladh gracefully whirled and ducked an imaginary jab. Twirling the spear in one hand, he deftly halted its spin with the other and delivered a quick one-two strike with alternating shaft ends. The sandbag thudded pleasantly and swung backwards at the force of his blows. Calengaladh dropped the spear to his waist and furiously thrust the blade into the sack. Letting go of the weapon and stepping back, he glared at the skewered bag as it twisted wildly, spear protruding from its midsection. 

Mallos wondered whose face Calengaladh was envisioning on the sandbag—Thranduil, Othon, or Lhûn. _‘Most likely Lhûn.’_ He plucked a beechnut from the ground and hurled it at the sack. The nut ricocheted smartly off the bag. Calengaladh, still breathing heavily, turned and gave the dark-haired prince a curt nod of approval. 

His grey eyes slid past Mallos and narrowed. Following his brother’s gaze, Mallos glanced over his shoulder. 

“You still have habit of leaving your left side unguarded.” Lhûn frowned and clasped his hands behind his back as he approached the two. 

Calengaladh folded his arms across his chest. “I do not think you are one to give me tips on spear-wielding. Have you not other duties to attend, Lhûn? Or do you abandon them as you would abandon the rest of us?” 

“Calengaladh,” Lhûn sharply replied, “I did not come here to trade insults with you!” 

Mallos absently rolled his boot back and forth over a fallen beechnut. “And yet that is all you have done thus far.” 

“It is hardly possible to do otherwise when the two of you are concerned!” 

“Then perhaps,” said Calengaladh, “you should not waste your remaining hours with such poor company as us.” 

Lhûn’s eyes flashed furiously. “Perhaps not.” He threw up his hands in disgust. “I had hoped you might—nay, never mind. My words are wasted upon your deaf ears and wooden heads.” He turned abruptly on his heel and stalked angrily towards the palace. 

Calengaladh watched his retreating form in disdain. “Lhûn!” he called, extending a slender arm in the direction opposite the Crown Prince, “Valinor is that way!” 

Lhûn stopped walking. _‘Ai.’_ Calengaladh instantly regretted his words. _‘I should not have said that.’_

“You should not have said that,” Mallos murmured at his side. Calengaladh frowned and shot the other a look of irritation. 

Lhûn’s long strides quickly covered the distance between them. “ _You think this any easier for me?_ You think I have not lain awake countless nights, agonizing over my decision?” 

Witnessing the Crown Prince lose his head was a memorable sight. 

“You think I willingly succumb to the Sea’s Call? That I would willingly admit defeat? Have you _any_ idea how long I have fought this battle, and what damage it has wrecked upon my sanity and my soul? _This land is dead to me!_ It is nothing but darkness and shadow and decay! It is all around—consuming me with every breath of foul air I take. I cannot bear it any longer. _I CANNOT!”_

Mallos found himself plastered against a tree trunk, rough bark biting into his back. Calengaladh’s position mirrored his own. Lhûn’s final shout echoed painfully throughout the forest. Eyes flashing wildly, the Crown Prince stood before them pale and trembling. It took Mallos a moment to realize he and Calengaladh were shaking just as badly. 

With a violent shudder, Lhûn sank to his knees. Mallos and Calengaladh reflexively followed suit, sliding down the tree trunk on strangely weakened legs. Shoulders sagging in defeat, Lhûn bowed his head and allowed his hair to fall across his face. 

Deafening silence settled beneath the autumn eaves of Mirkwood. Three erratic and pounding heartbeats offered small reprieve. Mallos opened his mouth to speak, but could find no appropriate words. 

He stiffened in surprise, though did not resist, when Calengaladh looped one arm around his shoulders and the other over Lhûn’s, drawing them both into firm embrace. 

Lhûn’s frame trembled as he emitted a shaky laugh. “You two are rotten,” he murmured, though without malice. “Absolutely rotten.” 

Calengaladh squeezed him tightly and grinned crookedly. 

Mallos smiled. “We shall miss you too, Miserable Wretch.” 

* * * 

After what seemed (to Gimli) an eternity of foliage and tree roots, Thranduil’s party came at last to a small dell. The Elven-king called them to a halt. “We draw near the Mountains of Mirkwood,” spoke Legolas in hushed tones. He lifted himself slightly from the saddle and peered into the gloom, bright eyes widening inquisitively. 

Gimli, who was supposed to be clutching the mane of his pony, opted instead for the more comforting feel of the axe handle. Though no trees grew directly within the tiny clearing, protruding branches extended to weave a dark ceiling above it. Sickly yellow sunspecks pierced the closely-knit canopy, illuminating small sections of fallen leaves and twigs. Little else carpeted the forest floor, for the dark and solemn trees of Mirkwood permitted only miniscule amounts of light to touch the earth. Gimli sat motionless, gripping the axe handle as though it were a lifeline. Glorfindel shifted restlessly and placed one hand over his sword pommel. 

Reaching into a skillfully embroidered saddlebag, Thranduil drew forth a small tinder lantern and lit it. The tiny flame flickered and cast an orange pall within the dell. Handing the lantern to Legolas, he pointed towards the shadowed eaves waiting silently before them. “Cross this dell and crest the following hill. Take the Dwarf with you.” 

Legolas frowned. “And then what am I to do?” 

“You are to look,” Thranduil replied. 

“Look? That is all?” 

Thranduil nodded. 

“As my liege commands.” Legolas swung himself down with nonchalant ease. “Come, Dwa—,” he scowled in annoyance as Glorfindel cleared his throat, _“—Gimli.”_

Gimli managed to get his heel tangled in the stirrup and landed rather heavily on the ground. Thankfully, both Glorfindel and Thranduil had tact enough not to laugh, and Thranduil’s glare cut short Legolas’ snort of mirth. Gimli picked himself up with a grunt and brushed leaf litter from his beard, mumbling all the while about poorly fashioned stirrups. Glorfindel was positive Thranduil’s scratching of the nose was merely pretense to hide his own smile. Grumbling and making certain his axe was readily accessible, the Dwarf hastened after Legolas and into the foreboding woods. 

The two crossed the dell rapidly and began hiking up the rugged hill. 

“Quit swinging the lantern, Elf.” 

“How I carry the lantern is of no concern to you, Dwarf.” The pale orange light continued its jaunty bounce, leaping haphazardly against the surrounding tree trunks. 

“It is my concern,” Gimli hissed in reply, “if I trip and fall over one of these confounded tree roots!” 

Legolas was far too cheerful as far as Gimli was concerned. It would do the Elf good, decided the Dwarf, were he to have some fear instilled in him. Gimli squinted into the gloom. Mayhap something would pop out of the shadows and eat the addle-brained tree coddler. 

Snapping branches shattered the forest’s unnatural stillness. Gimli spun, axe aloft. “What was that?” Sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill of the moist air. 

Legolas raised the lantern. Its muted orange flame glowed eerily against the tree trunks. Gimli held his breath. “ _That_ ,” said the Elf with infuriating calmness, “was a spider. At least, I am inclined to believe so.” He held the lantern forth and proceeded to walk in the direction of the sound. 

“What are you doing?” Gimli dared not shout in the sinisterly hushed woods. “Are you mad? Come back here!” 

Legolas turned with an exasperated sigh. “I merely seek to—“ 

“There will be no seeking—NONE—of any kind! What kind of fool ‘seeks’ to set the enemy upon him?” 

“The beast was small, and it was fleeing. We had no reason to fear. It was more frightened of you than _you_ were of it.” 

Gimli lowered his axe with a snarl and peered warily into the shadows. “Do not mistake common sense for fear, Elf. You would be wise to remember that.” 

“And you would be wise not to mistake fear for common sense, lest you be rendered frightened of even a your own shadow.” 

Gimli scowled. “Give me the lantern. All that swinging is making your precious trees ill.” 

“Nay,” Legolas smoothly replied, “it is merely your presence that disgusts them so.” Nonetheless, he handed the lantern to Gimli. “I need it not,” the Elf announced, “for my eyes can see well enough in this darkness.” 

“Braggart,” Gimli muttered, knowing in all likelihood the Elf heard him. Legolas, however, apparently considered himself above responding. 

They reached the hillcrest, Legolas in the lead. Below them, a thick grey fog had begun to collect, swallowing up the hill foot and continuing woods below. Staring intently into the murk, Legolas paused and adjusted his quiver before striding determinedly down the hill. Gimli followed with a bit more trepidation, carefully monitoring the ground for roots that seemed intent on tripping him. 

Legolas stopped so abruptly that Gimli, eyes still trained on the forest floor, ran straight into the Elf’s backside. 

“What—?” The Dwarf sputtered angrily and balled his thick fists. Oddly enough, Legolas gave no sign of having even noticed the collision. Gimli gave his beard a tug of annoyance and glanced at the Elf. 

Legolas remained motionless. Gimli studied his face, deciding the Elf had gone unnaturally pale, even for an Elf. A barrage of emotions flashed across Legolas’ face, each so fleeting Gimli barely had time to discern them. Curious as to what disturbed the Elf so, Gimli raised the lantern and turned his attention to the forest tract before them. Shrouds of grey mist drew back and parted in thick curtains, proudly displaying the horrors they concealed. 

_“Durin’s Beard!”_

The lantern fell from his nerveless hands and lay flickering upon the leaf-strewn ground. Several large black moths took to throwing themselves against its doors; rapidly beating wings casting grotesque shadows in the light. 

Gimli had never seen a sight more terrible than that which stretched before him. At his side, he heard Legolas’ breath catch raggedly. 

The trees were black—horribly misshapen and twisted. Amber-colored sap oozed and dribbled from the gouged trunks, glittering perversely in the lantern light. Gnarled roots clenched the ashen soil in agony. Even rock and stone were crushed within their grasp. Strange dark vines wound up, around, and over the trees. Ring-shaped blotches and streaks of molted brown covered their jagged leaves. Shriveled black leaflets curled or lie limply upon the forest floor. The ashen soil lie barren, save flowers colored in the pale and whitened pink of exposed flesh, or the dark crimson of rotting meat. The blossoms gave off an overpowering and putrid stench. 

Legolas, eyes squeezed shut and hands over his ears, slowly sank to his knees. Gimli wondered what it was the Elf heard—his ears could distinguish only the sinister creaking of dead branches. Kneeling awkwardly in the ashen soil and fighting the urge to gag, the Dwarf picked up a pallid beige stone. It crumbled in his hand like dust. Brushing his palms together in disgust, Gimli stood and backed away. Was this the fate awaiting Middle-earth? Would the sculpted caverns and solid stone of his kindred be reduced to nothing but powder and dust as well? 

Legolas reached tentatively for a fallen tree limb. The trees were screaming—he could hear them. Some cried as the sap slowly leaked from their mortally wounded trunks. Others wept and begged in gasps, slowly choking as the foul vines constricted tighter and tighter. And still others were cursing the darkness as well as the sun; only bitterness flowed from stem to root. They cursed because it was the only thing they remembered. 

Legolas wrapped one hand around the tree limb and then quickly withdrew it. The limb was soft and spongy, like wet, rotting wood. The dark vine coiled around it felt oily, and its molted leaves burned his skin like stinging nettles. The Elf unconsciously wiped his hand on his cloak and shuddered in revulsion. It was too much: the death throes of the trees, the ashen nothingness of the soil, the fetid scent of carrion flowers, the wet chill of the mist, and the impenetrable darkness… Legolas felt sick. Head bowed, he lurched to his feet and murmured thick words of prayer. 

The trees took his words and twisted them; throwing back the delicate Elvish phrases with such mocking discord even Gimli was unsettled. 

Elf and Dwarf stood silently before the perverse eaves, in the forest that was neither living nor dead. “I believe,” Legolas whispered quietly after a time, “we ought to return to the King and Lord Glorfindel.” 

Gimli nodded in wordless agreement, unable to tear his eyes from the macabre scene that would haunt his dreams for weeks to come. 

* * * 

Glorfindel’s hand strayed to his sword for the umpteenth time as some beast went crashing through the undergrowth. 

“A Warg,” Thranduil absently remarked, gaze trained in the direction Legolas and Gimli had departed. “They pose only serious threat when stalking or in packs.” 

“Mm.” Glorfindel wrapped his palm around the sword pommel and attempted to follow the Warg’s path with his ears. It was small wonder the Silvan folk were all nearly mad—anyone would be so after living in such a forest. The golden-haired Elf lord shook his head when the sound of the retreating Warg no longer reached his ear. “They have been gone a while, should we not go in search of them?” 

Thranduil shook his head. “Nay. Well is Legolas accustomed to reading the signs and warnings of the forest.” 

Glorfindel furrowed his brow. “Then humor me, my Lord. I would ride in search of them, by your leave.” 

Thranduil again shook his golden head. “That is unnecessary, and if any were to go, it would be me.” 

“Thranduil,” said Glorfindel in uncharacteristic vexation, “then let us merely say I worry for their safety. Please, allow me to seek them out, if only to rest my own fears.” 

“I would rather you did not.” 

The captain of Imladris fought down the urge to throw back his head and bellow in frustration. Instead, he turned and studied the Elven-king with a level stare. Thranduil remained cool and unruffled as ever. “What did you send them to see?” 

Thranduil stiffened slightly, remaining silent for several moments. “The outer fringe of the forest,” he spoke after a time, just when Glorfindel decided he would get no answer, “lies at the base of the Mountains of Mirkwood.” He again paused. “The Enemy assaulted the land but a short time ago. It is—,” the king grimaced angrily, “—it is ruined. Completely destroyed.” 

Glorfindel thoughtfully bowed his head, at last understanding the other’s resentment at his presence. “Thranduil, there was naught you could do. It is no cause for embarrassment.” 

Thranduil bristled. “You think me embarrassed? I assure you, embarrassment is the least of my concerns!” Grey eyes flashing, the Elven-king gestured angrily to the darkened forest surrounding them. “With each sunset I lose more ground—it is slipping between my fingers faster than river water.” 

Glorfindel said nothing. _‘I wonder how long this has plagued him?’_

“And you, nestled safely within Elrond’s realm, presume to think _embarrassment_ is Mirkwood’s most pressing dilemma?” 

“The Silvan folk are blessed to have your leadership,” Glorfindel quietly replied, knowing full well Thranduil was embarrassed. “And they know this.” 

Thranduil blinked, taken back by the other’s words. He had expected an argument to ensue. A deep sigh escaped his lips. “I apologize—I fear I have overstepped my boundaries. Mirkwood’s troubles are not of your doing, nor do they merit your concern.” 

Following instinct, Glorfindel placed a reassuring hand on the other’s shoulder. He felt Thranduil stiffen in surprise. “It is no trouble to lend an open ear, Thranduil. You do not blanch in the face of danger, and you refuse to be subdued. That, my good King, is all that could be asked of you. Mirkwood is strong; she will not falter.” 

“Yes,” Thranduil replied, face darkening, “but at what cost?” He quickly brushed aside his bleak thoughts with a sigh and slight shake of his frame. Glorfindel raised an eyebrow in curiosity as he discerned a ghost of a smile playing upon Thranduil’s lips. 

“Elrond is fortunate to have such a steadfast warrior as yourself,” said the King, lips quirking. “With compliments such as those you have given me, it is small wonder he thinks so highly of himself. Ah,” he indicated to the two figures emerging from the undergrowth before Glorfindel had chance to reply, “they return.” 

The return journey to the Elven-king’s Halls was a sober affair. Legolas and Gimli were, _‘For once,’_ Glorfindel noted, not intent on driving each other and everyone else to madness. Legolas rode next to Thranduil in silence, attention focused inward and seemingly to have taken personal offense to whatever it was he saw. Thranduil’s grave demeanor did not waver, though his expert eye flickered alertly over the surrounding forest. His brief glances towards his son did not go unnoticed by Glorfindel. 

Gimli rode beside the Imladris Elf, pony tethered to the tack of Glorfindel’s steed as usual. The Dwarf’s face was sunken into profound frown, and the muted glow in his eyes reminded Glorfindel of the fires of a forge: slow to heat, yet steadfast and searing when lit. _‘I regret you shall know far greater suffering before your time ends, son of Glóin.’_

Glorfindel had seen much in his two lives, and did not need to personally view the forest’s destruction to fully comprehend the Enemy’s power. He broke into a gentle song of lament as the tangled forest canopy gradually gave way to the lighter and more open tracts of beech. The trees’ golden leaves rustled tentatively at first, unused to the solid tones of the Noldo lord. Nevertheless, they soon settled and responded with warmth. Thranduil and Legolas both sent Glorfindel looks of quiet appreciation, and Legolas’ clear voice soon joined the melody of the Imladris Elf. Gimli, though he dare not admit to enjoying the song, relaxed visibly. 

Thranduil listened quietly but did not sing. He did not purge himself of grief—he used it. Grief, the Elven-king had learned, could be put towards anger. And anger, when properly controlled, was a powerful fuel. 

As Gimli was still not a welcomed guest to the Halls of Thranduil, and had no desire to be, he and Glorfindel set up small camp beneath a guards’ flet. Thranduil ordered two of his archers to watch over them during the night, and warned against “mistaking the Naugrim for a beast worthy of shooting.” Despite reassurances from Glorfindel, and cheeky vows of protection from the two archers, Gimli slept in full battle gear. 

“I shall return at dawn with Orimhedil and Lhûn, and bid you and the Dwarf on your way.” Thranduil glared challengingly at Glorfindel, daring him to mention his omission of Legolas. 

Glorfindel bowed politely. If Thranduil wished to render himself blind, then so be it. “There are some events even you cannot forestall, Thranduil Oropherion.” 

Thranduil’s face darkened, but rather than offer reply, he instead turned to Gimli. “Pleasant dreams, Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain.” 

Gimli thought the comment far too suspicious. The wide grins of Thranduil’s archers did not help to convince him otherwise. 

Returning to the palace, Legolas followed his father in grim weariness. He sensed the king still wished to speak with him, though Thranduil did not openly demand an audience. The two stopped briefly in the Main Hall, which served as the primary aid center for forest refugees. Thranduil’s four elder children were seated together and snacking on dried fruit, jovially discussing the likelihood of an Elven vessel capsizing in the harbors of Valinor. Mallos and Tuilë maintained such an event was possible, whereas Lhûn and Calengaladh deemed it folly. “Unless,” Calengaladh thoughtfully remarked, “the ship were built by Mallos’ hands.” Mallos glared at him as Lhûn and Tuilë dissolved into fits of laughter. 

Legolas noticed Lhûn seemed more at ease than ever before. He wondered at the change in his eldest brother, yet could think of no reason that would make him so content. Othon, usually hard-pressed to stray from Tuilë’s side, was nowhere to be found. Legolas suspected the royal family would not be seeing their sister’s beloved archer for days—particularly if Calengaladh was present. Mirkwood’s second prince was still none-too-happy Thranduil had turned his command over to the love interest of his sister. Legolas smiled to himself. Othon was a good archer, but by no means a leader. He suspected Thranduil would enforce some sort of dual captaincy, promoting Mirkwood’s current captain Daelir to Calengaladh’s former duties. 

Exchanging a glance of satisfaction with Lhûn, Thranduil left his four eldest children to their merriment. He and Legolas made for the study, conveniently located just beyond the throne room. 

The smell of parchment, ink, and dried tealeaves greeted the two as they entered the chamber. A deceptively cheerful fire danced in the hearth. Legolas inhaled deeply; he had always been fond of the room and its peculiar scent. He quietly seated himself in the chair of carved walnut opposite his father’s desk, thoughts returning to the blackened forest beneath the mountains. 

Thranduil cleared various scrolls from his chair—Lhûn, apparently, had made use of the room. Suppressing a sigh, he settled into the chair and allowed the silence to bring forth memories long-since pushed aside. 

* * * 

_Thranduil stormed into the commander’s tent, canvas flap slapping angrily behind him. “I cannot believe him!” he exploded, balling the parchment he carried and throwing it viciously to the ground. Lhûn, who had been quietly dozing in the corner, awoke with a start._

_Oropher, mug of spiced wine in his hand, glanced up from the map stretched in front of him. “Calm yourself,” he sternly ordered._

_“Calm myself? CALM MYSELF?” Thranduil whirled on his heel and began pacing the tent furiously. “I specifically bade him return upon conference with Lords Curulan and Elendil. I did not, at any time, give him permission to accept command of the Falathrim* armies!”_

_Lhûn straightened and shook away remnants of sleep. “Orodil has joined Alliance forces at Anórien?”_

_“Indeed,” replied Oropher. “He now commands the Falathrim forces serving under the Noldor.”_

_Lhûn’s eyes widened in awe. “He has severed himself from Greenwood,” Thranduil snapped in warning. He made a mental note to find armor better fitted to Lhûn’s slender young frame. The child looked ridiculous._

_Oropher leaned back in his chair and eyed his irate son. “You knew it would occur were you to send him. Inglor fell but two weeks ago; the Falathrim were in need of a commander. Our ranks are already swelled. Orodil’s talents would have gone to waste had he remained here—and he would have held much resentment towards you.”_

_“And you support his actions?” Thranduil growled angrily. “He consciously disobeyed me—a superior officer and his father, at that! Have you any idea what it is like?”_

_Oropher raised a silvered eyebrow. Thranduil, with rising irritation, received the distinct impression his father was enjoying this._

_“I do not support insubordination, Thranduil. However, as I previously stated: You knew what would occur were you to send him.”_

_“I had hoped,” came Thranduil’s icy response, “his sense of duty would outweigh his childish whims. Obviously, I was mistaken.”_

_“He serves where more needed.”_

_Thranduil glowered, continuing to pace angrily about the tent. “That is no excuse!”_

_Oropher nodded. “No, it is not.”_

_“Never has he disobeyed my wishes—nay, my very orders!”_

_Oropher drummed his fingers on the carved tabletop in front of him. “You did not give him permission, but I did.”_

_Thranduil froze mid-stride and turned to stare. “Excuse me?”_

_Oropher took a delicate sip of wine. “Lhûn,” he calmly ordered, eyes never leaving Thranduil, “Perhaps your mother and younger brothers would enjoy a letter from you.”_

_“I wrote two days ago,” Lhûn quickly replied. There was a heavy pause, in which both Thranduil and Oropher turned to the young Elf. “I shall write them again,” came Lhûn’s hasty amendment. He arose swiftly and exited the tent._

_Oropher frowned. “Where on Arda did you find him that armor? I fear we shall lose him in it.”_

_Thranduil exhaled angrily and crossed his arms over his chest. “Do not **ever** undermine my authority again, Adar. You had no right. No right! They are my sons, not yours. You will not interfere with their upbringing!”_

_“And you are my son, as they are my grandsons,” Oropher replied. “But this was a matter of State, not of Family.” He sighed. “Why do you so adamantly attempt to defy Fate, Thranduil? It is a battle you cannot win, and you know this.” The King of the Greenwood studied his son and frowned. “Yet constantly do you try, as though you might conquer it out of mere spite.”_

_Thranduil absently traced over the winding pattern of vines adorning his bracers and frowned in turn. “I would believe we have the power to choose our own paths; that we control our own decisions and destinies.” He met his father’s eyes. “Otherwise, what purpose is there to even try? I refuse to believe my mother and sister perished because Fate preordained it so!”_

_“Meaning we were helpless to prevent it, no matter what our efforts,” said Oropher, finishing his son’s unspoken thought. He shook his head and smiled tightly. “I know naught whether Ilwë and Nimium were destined to pass on. But this, my son, I do know: there are moments when the pieces fit so perfectly, when chance is too exact, that it can only be attributed to Fate.” He filled a second goblet with spiced wine and beckoned Thranduil to join him. The Crown Prince of Greenwood did so, albeit moodily._

_“You circumvented my authority.”_

_Oropher pursed his lips. “You were taunting Fate.” He held up a hand in warning. “Do not argue otherwise. Orodil has proven himself a brilliant field commander, yet we have the luxury of housing an abundance of capable veteran leadership. The Falathrim, by chance, lose their most competent captain and are in desperate need of a new one. A conference is called between the Alliance to discuss further moves. You—,” he eyed Thranduil in disapproval, “—send Orodil as our representative, knowing full well the Falathrim would seek his services.” Oropher lifted his goblet. “Fate, Thranduil. Fate.”_

_“You are more meddlesome than that troublesome Istari Mithrandir.”_

_Oropher snorted._

_The golden-haired prince twisted the goblet stem in his hand and stared pensively at the ruby-colored liquid within. “Orodil goes to the very heart of the battle,” he said softly, brow furrowing in concern. “I would rather he not.”_

_Oropher placed a reassuring hand on Thranduil’s shoulder. His grey eyes twinkled mischievously; Thranduil was mildly alarmed. “And I would rather you remain locked safe within the palace,” the Elven-king said dryly. “Or better yet—were you still a babe in changing rags.”_

_Thranduil snorted._

_Oropher smiled fondly to himself. “Ai, but sometimes I do long for those days. Aside from your constant wailing,” he stared pointedly at Thranduil, who found himself flushing, “you were quite delightful. Rather chubby, though I—“_

_“FATHER!”_

_Oropher chuckled smugly and reached out a hand to affectionately ruffle his son’s hair. Thranduil ducked and batted the hand away with a scowl. “Truly, my liege. This is most undignified.”_

_Oropher’s strong clear laugh floated through the tent. Despite his best efforts, Thranduil could not help but smile._

_“Thranduil,” said Oropher, tone growing somber, “I am sure Orodil would wish nothing more than to know you support him.”_

_Thranduil frowned and slowly shook his head. “He disobeyed my orders. Nay, I shall give him no token. He has made his choice and now must face the consequences of that action.”_

_Oropher sighed. “I would ask you reconsider, my son—though I know it futile of me. I only hope you do not regret such decision.”_

_“If there are any regrets,” Thranduil firmly replied, “they shall be only on Orodil’s part.” He drained the remaining contents of his goblet. “But tell me,” he said, deftly switching topics, “there is rumor of a letter you received from the Noldor High King…”_

_Oropher’s face darkened. “Yes, apparently his lordship Gil-galad believes himself in command of **all** Elves and Men.” Pushing back his chair, the silver-haired king stood and walked over to a large pile of papers atop a weathered chest. He spent a few moments shuffling through the documents before finding the letter of interest. Turning, he handed the letter to Thranduil. The Elven prince immediately recognized the royal blue crest of the house of Gil-galad, though half the wax seal was missing. Oropher had apparently not given much thought to preserving Gil-galad’s message. _

_“It seems,” Oropher mused aloud while Thranduil scanned the parchment, “he has named that bookish little peredhil his Second.”_

_Thranduil glanced up in surprise. “Elrond?” He laughed. “Elrond is Gil-galad’s Second? I suppose I shall have to call him ‘lord’ now. ‘Lord’ Elrond…”_

_“It matters not.” Oropher’s eyes narrowed in distaste. “They all think themselves ‘lords’ as it is.”_

_Thranduil decided not to point out Oropher had declared himself a king. “I find Elrond Peredhil is most agreeable.”_

_Oropher harrumphed. “Wait until we have been at war for a longer period of time. The Noldor tend to…” he searched for the appropriate words, “…find their ‘lesser’ brethren most disposable in battle. Already have the Falathrim come to know this.”_

* * * 

Legolas shifted noiselessly. Thranduil blinked. Never again had he spoken to Orodil—the Crown Prince had fallen at Dagorlad not long after his departure. He was buried on the battlefield with the remnants of his company, but the land sank into swamp before Thranduil had chance to visit his son’s resting spot. 

The Elven-king stared blankly at his youngest child. “Will you go, I wonder, though I forbade it?” 

Legolas started. “My Lord?” 

Thranduil tonelessly repeated himself. He watched Legolas’ shoulders as they squared in resolve. 

“I have given my word,” the youngest prince replied, eyes meeting Thranduil not in defiance, but firm resolution. 

Thranduil leaned back in the chair and gingerly steepled his fingers. “I wished to spare you from the forest blight, Legolas. I am sorry you had to witness it.” 

Legolas flinched, nearly causing Thranduil to do so as well. “Nay, my Lord. I do not fault you. It was necessary that I view it, that I know the Enemy’s threat.” His fair face grew shadowed by the memory. “Father,” he tentatively began, “can that… will it… will that spread?” 

The Elven-king closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “If we do not combat it, the Shadow will reach into our very gates and beyond. It will cover all of Middle-earth, Legolas—not only Mirkwood.” 

“I know you hoped that in by showing me the forest, I would remain.” Legolas clenched his fists and stared unseeing at them, mind still wandering the hideous woods. Lifting his eyes, he searched Thranduil’s face intently. “But now I feel all the more strongly that I must go.” Sliding from the chair, he lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head. “Please, Adar. Please understand—I do not wish to disobey you, but I must do this. Something calls to me, and tells me only that I must.” 

Thranduil suddenly glimpsed what it was Elrond saw in his son. His son was a warrior—skilled, loyal, and true of heart. His son was young and strong, naïve but not wholly unwise. _‘For he seeks reassurance, knowing only that his path will be long and dark.’_

It occurred to Thranduil that perhaps he, himself, was just as frightened. 

Rising from his chair, he stood silently in front of the kneeling figure before him. The Elven-king’s pride was a bittersweet one. He gently rested one hand atop his son’s head, fingers tightening in the fine hair, and shut his eyes. 

“Fate, Legolas,” came his quiet words, though Legolas sensed they were intended for Thranduil’s ears as well as his own. “Fate.” 

******* 

_Falathrim- Descendents of Teleri Elves (as were the Sindar). Went from Falas, to the Isle of Balas, and finally settled in the Grey Havens and Lindon. There is no record of them being at Dagorlad. (Creative license on my part.) However, as some Falathrim most likely resided in Lindon (though the majority dwelt in the Grey Havens), it is not entirely impossible they fought under Noldor command at Dagorlad._

_Dagorlad- Very big battle between Alliance forces (Noldor and Men of Gondor) and the forces of Sauron. The land eventually sank into swamp and became the Dead Marshes (all those creepy floating faces)._

_Other Canon Notes : I have NO idea how old Thranduil is. It is mentioned that he “came out of Lindon to the Greenwood,” so he was either born in Lindon (which was Noldor-run), or much earlier in Doriath. I am inclined to believe the former, and that his father was from Doriath, as Thranduil doesn’t appear to have participated in the War of the Jewels. Perhaps Thranduil’s mother was of Noldor heritage, which would explain why he was in Lindon (as well as his blonde hair coloration)—though I can only speculate. *sigh* It’s all very muddling and I’ve spent waaaaaay too much time going over it._

_It is also mentioned that Thranduil fashioned the caverns of Mirkwood after those of Menegroth (he moved the kingdom further north after his father’s death; I suppose the old kingdom of Greenwood is probably rotting beneath the eaves of Mirkwood somewhere in all the gloom). I have no idea how he knew what Menegroth looked like; perhaps he somehow managed to visit or several of his subjects were survivors of the city and gave him its layout. My research on the subject left me somewhat confused._

_I’m assuming Thranduil’s mother and sister perished during the War of Sauron and the Elves (1697 S.A.). Oropher’s Greenwood was founded in 750 S.A., and the Last Alliance occurred in 3441 S.A. Let us assume that Oropher and Thranduil have a close relationship. Oropher, unlike Thranduil, does not have to deal with the direct influence of Sauron over his realm, so he’s probably going to feel a great deal less strain than does his son. Remember, the forest became known as ‘Mirkwood’ during the time of Thranduil’s reign, not Oropher’s. *Whew!* Kudos if you just read all that!_


	36. A Madness to the Method

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

_THANK YOU for the tremendous reviews!!! :)_

_This chapter is wholeheartedly dedicated to one of my dear friends, M.P._

_Happy Reading!_

******* 

Boromir squirmed and twisted in his bonds. He had an itch just above his right eyebrow, and chained to a tree with his hands behind his back as he was, it was impossible to reach. He tried rubbing his forehead against his shoulder to no avail. He simply could not reach the itch. 

The son of Denethor wretched in his chains with a frustrated growl. Why was he not blessed with a smaller head, or bigger shoulders? 

He straightened, resting the back of his head against the bark, and inhaled deeply. He must remain calm and collected. Perhaps the itch would go away. Closing his eyes, Boromir took another deep breath. 

_‘Calm and collected… Calm and collected.’_

A second itch twinged at the top of his hairline. Calm and collected was quickly replaced by furious and unhinged. Boromir voiced his frustrations with language that would have made an orc blush. 

Exhausting his verbal arsenal, it suddenly occurred to the Man of Gondor he might try drawing up a knee and using it to scratch his head. As the itches were prickling with maddening intensity, he wasted no time testing the idea. Thankfully, it worked. Not caring how strange he looked, Boromir vigorously rubbed his forehead against his knee. It felt wonderful. 

Itches relieved, he rested against the tree in contentment. Gauging the sun’s position, Boromir decided he had another few hours before dusk settled and the orcs would stir. Craning his neck, he squinted into the tangled autumn foliage and sought out his captors. They slept through the waning hours of noon, piled atop one another in shallow pits dug beneath overhangs and underbrush. Aragorn was somewhere in that tangled mass of foul-smelling bodies. Boromir did not envy the man. He was actually thankful to be chained to a tree, especially if the alternative meant cuddling orcs. 

At that very moment, Aragorn lay in silent misery amidst his fellow orcs. He had resorted to breathing out of his mouth to prevent gagging, though for some revolting reason he could still smell the creatures. The orc Lubdush, who had an arm thrown over Aragorn, twitched and smacked his lips. Suppressing a shudder, the Ranger gingerly attempted to remove the arm. The orc mumbled and pulled him closer. 

A second orc resting at Aragorn’s head—was it Gorbdûl?—gurgled and rolled over. His face, though upside down, rested nose-to-nose with Aragorn’s. The orc leered in his sleep, producing a strange, high-pitched wheeze. Or perhaps it was a laugh. 

_“Heeeeeeeeeee.”_

Aragorn gagged as fetid orc breath rolled hotly off his face. A thin stream of drool trickled down the beast’s blubbery lips and misshapen chin. Aragorn realized he could either drown in a puddle of Orkish drool, or risk strangulation by nestling further into Lubdush’s chest. Neither was particularly appealing. 

In the end, he chose strangulation. 

Gritting his teeth, Aragorn tensed as Lubdush murmured something in the Black Tongue and swung a leg over him. It was futile to pretend the orc was Arwen. For one thing, the Evenstar did not snore, and for another, she most certainly did not have claws or a gag-inducing stench—despite what Elladan and Elrohir might claim. Aragorn’s skin crawled as rotted orc breath blew past his tar-encrusted neck. 

Oh how he hated Boromir. 

Gorbdûl, face slick with drool, twitched and drew closer. _“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”_

Several bloated white insects hopped within the orc’s matted hair. Aragorn blanched. Lice. He was going to get lice. 

He could not take much more of this. 

He had been sleeping as such for the past week, while the orc company trekked towards Rivendell and then—much to the two men’s dismay—around the Elven realm. They were currently camped in the forested hills east of Rivendell’s borders, exactly opposite the direction Aragorn and Boromir wished to be. 

_“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”_

_‘Enough!’_ Aragorn bit back a snarl. Escape was necessary sooner or later, for when the orc party joined with the others they would undoubtedly realize Aragorn was not who he said he was. Now, the Heir of Isildur reasoned, was good a time as any. 

Aragorn began the tedious chore of wriggling himself free of Lubdush’s embrace. It was no easy task. _‘Why,’_ he wondered, worming towards Lubdush’s feet, _‘did I not attempt this at an earlier hour?’_

The orc sprawled at Lubdush’s feet jerked and burped. Aragorn froze. The tangle of orcs continued to snore in oblivion. 

The tarred Heir of Isildur was thankful they posted no guards. All orcs, no matter how wary, still slept during the day. Such was the nature of the creatures. If there were any guards, Aragorn did not doubt they would be fast asleep at their posts. 

He carefully positioned Lubdush’s arm over the drooling Gorbdûl. Neither orc seemed to notice the switch. Stepping awkwardly over piled bodies, Aragorn grabbed the discarded weapons of both Boromir and himself, and slipped into the glorious sunlight. 

The glorious, fading sunlight. 

Aragorn groaned, wondering how he had managed to so misjudge the hour. _‘Well, there is naught to be done about it now.’_ He gathered he had about two hours’ time until dusk. 

Boromir sat, comfortably chained to his tree in the cheerful autumn sunlight, and regarded the other with indifference. He appeared to be waiting for Aragorn to take action. Indeed, it almost seemed he had been expecting the Ranger. For some reason, this greatly irked Aragorn. 

Boromir glanced pointedly to the grey sky. 

“I was not aware the hour had grown so late,” Aragorn said crossly. He knelt down behind the other and set about working Boromir’s chains. 

The manacles fell away with a soft chink. Boromir sighed gratefully and rubbed his wrists. 

Aragorn tossed the man his sword and Horn of Gondor. “We must make haste,” said the dark-haired Ranger, glancing over his shoulder at the snoring orcs. “Imladris’ borders lie just below these hills. Hurry, before our ‘friends’ wake.” 

“You need not tell me this,” Boromir curtly replied. He slung the horn over his shoulder and marched into the forest eaves, Aragorn at his side. “I hope,” the Man of Gondor added ruefully, “the Elves are as perceptive as you claim. Otherwise, I fear you in danger of being shot.” He wrinkled his nose. “And you smell of orc.” 

Aragorn channeled his anger into concentrating on moving through the forest as quietly as possible. “My apologies.” Nonetheless, the comment came out with more sarcasm than he intended. 

Boromir bristled and marched ahead with more purpose. Aragorn sighed, quickly reining in his emotions. Their bickering was leading nowhere, and likely to land them in even more trouble. The Heir of Isildur winced as Boromir carelessly swung his sword blade at a protruding tree branch. The man was making enough racket to wake the dead, and if he continued to hack at the forest when they reached Rivendell… 

“Boromir,” Aragorn hissed as he hastened to the man’s side. “Boromir!” 

The broad-shouldered man turned in exasperation. “What is it now?” 

Several scathing comments sprang to Aragorn’s mind. He pushed them aside with effort. “The Elves will not be pleased if you continue to treat the land so. And,” he grimaced, knowing Boromir would not like what he had to say, “it would be wise were you to tread the forest with a bit more stealth.” 

“Stealth?” Boromir’s voice lowered dangerously. His chest seemed to swell. “I have already made myself clear: Boromir son of Denethor does _not_ slink through the trees as do the foul spies of the Enemy!” 

Aragorn merely crossed his arms over his chest and regarded the other with an unreadable expression. Boromir found it unnervingly Elf-like. In fact, it rather reminded him of Lord Elrond. Unsure of what to do, he simply pulled himself to his full height and glared back. Aragorn’s grey eyes regarded him coolly. Boromir found himself swiftly losing ground. Fuming, he dropped his gaze and looked away. 

“Come,” Aragorn quietly commanded. He glanced at the sky, whose icy grey was giving way to a dull orange glow. “We have not much time before dusk.” Realizing his options were painfully limited, Boromir grudgingly followed. 

Shadows stretched further across the forest, blending with those of their neighbors and blanketing the autumn-dressed trees in soft gloam. Drawing the soiled remnants of his cloak about his shoulders, Boromir suppressed a shiver. Hostile winds swept down from the mountains, sending painted leaves quivering as they blew by. 

Peculiar noises radiated throughout the dusky woods: grunts, snapping twigs, and the distinct rasp of blade upon whetting stone. On more than one occasion, the two men found themselves scrambling behind tree or boulder as parties of orcs tramped through the undergrowth. 

The constant duck-and-cover left Boromir’s nerves raw and on edge. Repressing the urge to go forth and fight, coupled with the constant watch for the Enemy, was physically and emotionally draining. 

And then there was Aragorn. 

Aragorn, who seemed perfectly at ease. That is, as much as one could be so given their situation. The tarred Heir of Isildur slipped beneath the eaves like wisps of smoke, blending into the surrounding forest so well Boromir was disgusted—or perhaps jealous, though he would not admit to the latter. 

The two men had taken to walking side-by-side whenever possible. Boromir noticed that whenever he surged ahead, Aragorn would quicken his pace and attempt to overtake him. Similarly, whenever Aragorn’s strides grew longer, Boromir wasted no time in matching them. 

Boromir supposed they must look quite ridiculous, each man trying to keep his pace at a walk while simultaneously attempting to outdistance the other. Still, he would not give Aragorn the satisfaction of winning. 

Boromir strode down the hill at what could have been argued as a jog, or at very least a springy walk. Aragorn never left his side. 

It was somewhat of a surprise when Aragorn went from alert to tense in the blink of an eye, swiftly ducking down into the decaying leaf litter. “Atop the ridge, to your right.” 

Following the other’s outstretched arm, Boromir easily made out the dark collection of figures as they crested the rise. He paused and toyed with his sword just long enough that Aragorn reached out to grab him. The Man of Gondor threw himself to the ground of his own accord, disgust written plainly across his face. Dead leaves rustled loudly as he hit the damp forest floor. 

Aragorn’s grey eyes flashed. He was positive Boromir was purposely making more noise than necessary. He was forced to keep his comments to himself, however. The alarmingly large contingent of orcs galloping down the hillside left both men ducking amidst a tangle of briars. 

The forest trembled under countless Orkish feet. Sauron’s dark minions called loudly and barked back and forth as they thundered through the trees, dark shapes giving the dusk-laden forest a nightmarish quality. 

They passed as quickly as they had come; yet still their presence was felt profoundly within the shaken wood. Ignoring the thorns tearing at him, Aragorn leapt to his feet. “Elbereth! That is a whole army headed towards Imladris’ borders.” He cleared the briar patch, half sliding down the hill in his haste. For the first time in ages, Aragorn felt panic wrap its icy fingers around his chest and squeeze unmercifully. Rivendell was about to be attacked. Had the realm ever before come under assault? Would it withstand such an onslaught? Lord Elrond’s powers were mighty, but— 

_‘ARWEN.’_

And with that thought, Aragorn son of Arathorn, so painstakingly trained by the wise Elves of Rivendell and Dunedain of the North, was rendered completely irrational. 

Arwen. He must protect Arwen. 

“Hurry, Boromir!” 

* * * 

All was silent on the grounds of the Last Homely House, most of its inhabitants having rushed to defend the borders or resigned to await fate within their dwellings. 

Elrond defiantly lifted his chin to the east, wind whipping braided locks across his ageless face in thin strands. The setting sun bathed Imladris in weary pink gloam, and trees creaked uneasily in the growing darkness. Elrond’s sharp features drew into a determined frown. He could feel the Enemy drawing closer, shadow sliding across the land like thick grease. 

_‘No matter,’_ the Elf lord thought angrily. Autumn had arrived far too soon, but he still held the winter at bay. 

_‘Let them come.’_ Steely grey eyes narrowed and glinted in the fading light. _‘Let them come.’_

* * * 

Merry could barely contain his excitement. One week ago, he had been restricted to bed and was little more than a useless menace. Now, here he was: just beyond Rivendell’s borders awaiting an Orkish onslaught. The young hobbit fairly danced with giddiness, his head feeling strangely light and airy. 

Pippin squirmed excitedly at his side. “Do you see anything yet?” 

Merry shook his head. “No, not yet.” He scratched the back of his neck and sighed heavily. “I do wish those orcs would hurry. It’s getting dreadfully boring just sitting here and waiting.” 

Wiggling his toes impatiently, Pippin nodded in agreement. “I’ll say.” 

Quiet laughter floated down from the tree branches above. “Do not be so eager to join the battle, little ones,” came an amused Elven voice. 

“But my,” a second clear voice laughed, “the pheriannath are a bloodthirsty Race!” 

“We are not,” protested Pippin, squinting up into the darkened branches. “We hobbits are a very peace-loving folk. It’s just that… Well, just that…” 

“We’re bored,” Merry flatly concluded. “And I’ll have you know, good Elves, there have been plenty of warrior hobbits.” 

The crisp fall air rang with silvery Elvish laughter. For some reason, both hobbits felt inclined to join in. 

_“There’s something nice about Elvish laughter,”_ Pippin later confided to his cousin. _“It makes you feel happy, and want to make them laugh even more.”_ Merry agreed. 

Long strands of Etagnolë* vine had been woven together to form thick bands, and were stretched along the land just before Rivendell’s borders. The makeshift slingshots were tied to trees, or, when there were no trees, to carefully constructed wooden posts. The slingshots’ woven nettings themselves were held fast with fine Elvish rope. One needed only to cut the taut rope, and the nets snapped forward with alarming speed. 

The slingshots were at least three deep; it was readily agreed that an orc would have greater difficulty avoiding three sets of the contraptions as opposed to one. 

And there were, of course, the standard defenses of archers and swordsmen. Young eagles circled above, eagerly awaiting the chance to prove their mettle. They cast magnificent shadows over the woods, gliding silently in the dull twilight. 

Shielding his eyes, Pippin looked upward and sighed in wistful admiration. He had been particularly fond of eagles since his last flight with the Windlord Landroval. He was about to mention something of the Eagles’ majestic nature to Merry, when he noticed the unnatural hush settled over the land. He looked to his cousin questioningly. Merry shook his head and shrugged in reply. 

Pippin gasped as several grim-faced Elves materialized at his side. Their bright eyes were focused intently on the steep eastern hills and mountains. Pippin held his breath. He was suddenly very glad Sam and Bilbo had remained in Rivendell. Sam made it very clear he wanted no part in the battle, and Bilbo… The Elves—more precisely, Lord Elrond—had tricked Bilbo into staying behind, claiming his genius would be needed to defend the Elf lord’s very halls. 

The Elves, seeming to possess a calm alertness utterly foreign to both hobbits, drew their swords. A barely perceptible rustle emanated from surrounding trees as arrows were nocked and bows swiftly drawn. 

Pippin realized he was chewing his nails. 

Thin mist snaked down from the mountains, invading the eerily silent woods and thickening upon the ground. A strange rumble came from the hills, growing louder with each passing second. The trees began to shake. Merry tensed and drew in a sharp breath. His pounding heart took to an erratic flutter. At his side, Pippin trembled and grew ghastly pale. 

It occurred to Merry perhaps he had forgotten about being afraid. 

Harsh calls, magnified and hollow sounding in the mist, echoed throughout the forest. Merry could just make out the surging wave of black moving through the hills ahead. He was suddenly very glad he stood behind the third row of slingshots. 

Pippin grabbed his wrist. Merry turned to the younger hobbit, intending to offer some words of comfort. Pippin looked dangerously close to fainting. 

Come to think of it, Merry didn’t feel so well himself. And his thoughts tended to revolve around scenes of terror rather than comfort. 

Pippin wouldn’t have heard him as it was. The young hobbit was too busy staring at the oncoming horde, eyes the size of saucers. 

A cool hand touched Merry’s forehead. He blinked owlishly, wondering at the unexpected sensations of warmth and relief flooding over him. 

Erestor smiled reassuringly and removed his hand. “Fear not, Master Hobbits.” The tall Elf placed a hand upon Pippin’s shoulder. “Mayhap we shall bend, but we will not break.” 

Merry nodded vigorously and turned to his petrified cousin. “See Pip?” His voice was several notches squeakier than he would have liked. “See? It’s going to be all right. Like Erestor says: ‘ _break but not bend.’_ I mean—break, but not—break—bend—brend—oh—“ 

Pippin smiled wanly and pointed forward. “Orcs.” 

“Buhhhhhhh,” was all Merry managed, transfixed by the nightmarish sight before him and unaware his mouth still moved of its own accord. 

Crude Orkish blades glinted red in the waning rays of sunlight. Harsh cries and guttural screams drove away the normal sounds of dusk. A great howl of rage erupted from the dark horde. The Elves answered in turn, their clear and defiant shouts forming an off-key chord to that of the orcs’. 

_‘So **this** is what battle is like,’_ Merry found himself thinking, overwhelmed and dazed by the sheer magnitude of activity on all sides of him. It was a pure chaos he could make no sense of. It barely registered that Erestor had picked up both he and Pippin, and was now retreating back to the safety of Rivendell. 

He watched over Erestor’s shoulder as the front wave of orcs hit the first nets. A clear Elvish command rang out. The nets snapped forward with sharp twangs, sending numerous black bodies rocketing skyward. Delighted eagle cries, mixed with Orkish wails of despair, came from above as the Eagles swooped down and made sport of snatching the airborne orcs mid-flight. 

Pippin’s slack jaw jarred against Erestor’s shoulder as the tall Elf walked onward. “Valar,” the hobbit murmured in awe, watching a very confused Orkish army bumble into the second row of slingshots. As the sun slipped beneath the horizon and released an unexpected burst of brilliant evening color, the sky ran thick with Elvish arrows, diving Eagles, and wailing orcs. 

“Wait!” Merry, much to Erestor’s chagrin, began struggling within the councilor’s grasp. “Where are we going?” 

The dark-haired Elf paused to cast the hobbit a bemused look. “Why, back to Imladris.” 

“What?” Merry increased the intensity of his struggles. “I want to see the battle!” 

Erestor shifted the hobbit in his arms and sniffed airily. “That is hardly prudent, young Brandybuck. You shall be much safer with the rest of your kin.” 

“But—“ 

“And do not worry,” the Elf continued somewhat tersely, “I am sure you will view plenty of battle upon your future travels.” 

“I don’t think they’ll look quite like that,” Pippin interjected with an awestruck shake of the head. 

* * * 

Boromir slowly got to his feet. Gingerly picking briars from his sleeves, the man cautiously maneuvered out of the thorn patch. 

Aragorn beckoned violently to him before turning an anxious eye in the direction the orcs had tread. “Come, we must make haste!” 

Boromir decided he didn’t like the wild look in the other’s eyes. “ _Now_ you wish to fight them,” he muttered, loud enough for Aragorn to hear. He frowned and rubbed the top of his hand where a briar snagged him. 

“Did you not see the size of their forces? If they reach the borders before Imladris is warned, all will be lost! “ 

Had that been panic Boromir detected in Aragorn’s voice? He regarded the man in wary curiosity. “What exactly do you intend to do? Attack from behind? Come, Aragorn, even _I_ would not try those odds.” Boromir wondered how it was he became the voice of reason. To the best of his knowledge, this was a first time occurrence. 

Aragorn took to pacing. Boromir was mildly alarmed. Never had he seen Aragorn openly unsettled, much less pacing. Then again, never had he been the one to give sound, levelheaded advice. Mayhap he would start spouting proverbs. Boromir shook his head. _That_ was a strange thought, indeed. 

“If we tie a bit of rope around your wrists,” said Aragorn, musing aloud as he rubbed his tar-encrusted chin, “you may pass as a prisoner and I as your keeper.” 

Boromir blinked. “Prisoner? Oh no, I think not.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I will not allow you,” he flatly stated, “to restrain me in any manner.” 

Aragorn abruptly stopped pacing and unleashed an impressive glare upon the son of Denethor. Evening sun silhouetting his tar-covered frame, Boromir thought the man looked marvelously insane. “In order to catch them unawares,” Aragorn spoke tightly, “we must blend in with the Enemy.” 

Boromir snorted. “Yes, I quite fancy being slaughtered at the hands of several hundred orcs, in the guise of a prisoner, no less.” 

“Do you not understand what will happen should those creatures reach the borders?” Aragorn turned upon Boromir with a snarl. “I will not stand by and watch the only home I know destroyed, and those I love perish within it!” 

Boromir replied with equal intensity. “It is this very thing that happens daily within my homeland! You think I would not give anything—do anything—to stop it? Why do you think I have journeyed all this way?” He threw up his arms in fury. “Why do you think I join this doomed Quest?” 

“Save your words for a more sympathetic ear and place, son of Denethor!” 

The darkened forest echoed with their shouts, yet neither man cared. Weeks of anger boiled to the surface and spilled over. 

“You care nothing for Gondor or her people!” Boromir balled his fists, face flushed crimson with rage. “You are nothing but a power-hungry, crown-snatching thief! Heir of Isildur? Hah! _Bane_ of Isildur, more likely. It is you whom are our downfall—not some trinket ring!” 

“Do not DARE presume to know my character, or what I have seen!” Aragorn stood toe-to-toe with the Man of Gondor. “And speak not of the Ring as though it were a thing so easily dismissed! I tire of your bullish nature and foolish ways, son of Denethor. You take action only when it suits your own needs; you care for no one but yourself! The lack of respect you show towards other Races is appalling!” 

“At least I know my place—I know whom my people are!” 

“ENOUGH!” Aragorn took off his scabbard belt and pulled it taut. “Just put this strap around your wrists—” He lunged. 

Boromir shoved him back with a snarl. “When orcs fly!” 

Face contorted in fury, Aragorn opened his mouth to reply. 

At that precise moment, no less than five screaming orcs went sailing over the treetops. 

Dumbfounded, the two men watched the wailing creatures meet un-wielding tree branch. Several sickening snaps preceded unearthly thumps as the orcs fell most ungracefully to the ground. 

Aragorn and Boromir stared at one another. Boromir seemed not to notice his mouth was hanging open. Aragorn again glanced upward, slowly rubbing his pitch-covered chin as several more flailing orcs went shooting across the twilit sky. “Certainly did not see _that_ coming,” he murmured, feeling words of some sort were necessary. 

* * * 

The Dark Lord’s plans to pressure the realm of Elrond had gone horribly awry. Units fell into disarray as they were cut down by the steel-tipped feathers of Elvish arrows, or flung into oblivion by carefully concealed slingshots. Elven blades swiftly felled those who managed to escape the arrows or nets. 

Eagles with beaks and talons sharper than razors dove upon them from the night sky; Elves with eyes blazing brighter than the hated sun showed no mercy. Not a single orc reached Rivendell’s borders. 

The grey clouds of day thinned in the night, leaving patches of clear sky. Stars winked merrily from above, and the moon lent a gentle phosphorescence to the massacre below. Beneath the mocking night, sad remnants of the Orkish mass turned tail and ran. Back into the hills and mountains they fled, while more unfortunate comrades went sailing over the darkened treetops, howling in terror. The Eagles were close behind, driving them away from the horrible flinging nets and cheering Elves with fierce relish. 

It was then, amidst the wooded hills, that The Creature came. 

Shining whiter and more terribly bright than a full moon—or, strangely purple at some angles—it burst through the mist and charged pell-mell towards the orcs. It shrieked and moaned as it ran, infusing even more panic into an already terrorized army. 

Some claimed it had two legs, others four. Likewise, the ghostly Creature was said to gallop by some and roll by others. Tree branches grew from its neck. Its belly was larger than that of a dragon’s, and it could easily swallow ten orcs at once. Its eyes were glistening orbs of pitch, blacker than the orcs themselves. “ _Gnûsh-kil”_ the orcs named it—The Destroyer.* For, those whom the Creature brushed by were instantly hewn down or melted beneath its flailing limbs. 

As it was, Shadowfax was far too miserable and half-delirious with colic to realized the marvelous effect he had upon Sauron’s minions. 

* * * 

_Thump! Crack! Thump-thump-THUD._

It was all Aragorn and Boromir could do but stand and watch as orcs rained from the evening sky. 

_THUD!_ Boromir jumped as a broken orc body nearly landed on top of him. He gaped skyward and ducked as two more beasts came to rest where he had been standing only moments before. 

Where were they coming from? Obviously, the sky—that much was certain. _‘But how,’_ Boromir wondered. _‘How did they get up there?’_

He was given no further time to ponder this mystery, as the sounds of a large mass moving through the woods drew his attention. His sword was instantly in his hand. He gave it an experimental swipe, blood singing in tune to the sweet metallic shiver. Boromir allowed himself a cold smile. Aragorn could go rot in Mordor, for all he cared. The son of Denethor would not cower in the bushes this time. 

Bringing the Horn of Gondor to his lips, Boromir released a powerful blast. The hills reverberated in reply. 

“Death take us all!” he cried, and charged recklessly into the woods. 

Had he bothered to look over his shoulder, he may have been pleasantly surprised to find Aragorn just as eager to fight as himself. 

Fire danced through the Heir of Isildur’s grey eyes. Of course he knew better than to charge headfirst into oncoming Orkish armies. 

_“ELENDIL!”_

The hills echoed with a second Horn blast. 

Aragorn threw himself at the first dark creature he saw, sword glinting in the orange dusk. 

No matter. If they survived, he could always blame this on Boromir. 

******* 

Etagnolë: “ _Hedera elasticus._ Member of the vine family. Long, thick plant with woody stem composed of elastic fibres. May grow to be a maximum of 8 cm in diameter. Leaves small but numerous, approximately 5 cm in length. Younger shoots, when properly treated, may be used for therapy purposes or swings. Poisonous if consumed.” 

\--Bryn’s Guide of Imaginary Middle-earth Species, Chapter 5 “Fun With Fire,” pg. 88. 

_Gnûsh-kil, The Destroyer—purely inventive Orkish-sounding nonsense._

* * * 

THANK YOU 

Hiro-tyre- *lol* I hope you enjoy reading the story! Thank you for the review!! 

Miriel- Oooh, good catch on the typo! Legolas can be quite an arrogant snot when he wants to, can't he? In my opinion, he deserved every punch he got, and Gimli is deserving of some sympathy. The poor Dwarf has gone through just about everything and then some. I admit to taking Merry's therapy from the stretches I was forced to do. :) I'm thrilled to hear things are working out so well for you with Shadowfax. Don't worry about Glorfindel--he's well taken care of. (Thundera Tiger claimed him as well as Gimli, Glóin, and poor Erestor. And Thranduil.) The darker chapters caught me off guard as well, but it can't be all fun and games, I suppose. And both Gimli and Legolas needed a sharp reminder of what lies at stake. Thank you for the wonderful reviews!!! :) 


	37. East Meets West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

Dew clung heavily to the forests Mirkwood, capturing the soft light of dawn in tiny beads upon leaf blade and root. _‘It shall be warm and clear this day,’_ Thranduil thought absently. _‘A fine day for travel.’_

The Elven-king stood tall amidst the silvered beeches of his realm, bright eyes trained ever westward. 

“They have been beyond our sight nigh an hour,” came a clear voice at his side. 

Thranduil continued to gaze into the endless forest. “I am aware of this.” 

Silence ensued, broken only by distant strains of birdsong. Thranduil sensed the other’s hesitation. 

“Adar,” Calengaladh quietly began, “Legolas is bound by no oath. He may return to us yet.” 

A barely perceptible sigh escaped the Elven-king’s lips. “Nay, Calengaladh. He is bound by his heart, as is Lhûn. And that is stronger than any oath or pledge will ever be.” 

“Then let us look forward to his safe return after he has completed his mission.” 

Thranduil’s face grew shadowed, if not somewhat remorseful. “Never again will Legolas as we know him now walk beneath these eaves.” 

After a heavy pause, Calengaladh chuckled wryly. “I fear I know naught how to bring comfort in the face of such bleakness. Mallos is far better at this than I.” 

Thranduil glanced at his golden-haired son in slight amusement. “It is bad form for the ruler to admit his shortcomings.” 

“One might instead call it stubbornness,” replied Calengaladh with a small quirk of the lips. 

“Never,” answered Thranduil. 

Calengaladh was relieved to see a genuine smile cross his father’s face, no matter how fleeting it might be. Casting a westward glance in spite of himself, the golden-haired prince retreated beneath the autumn canopy of beech. “My Lord,” he called softly. “Taurmil wishes to revise the Dorwinian drafts, and there is the matter of feeding the refugees.” He paused. _“You are needed.”_

Thus did Thranduil bid his youngest son silent farewell. And though Legolas’ journey was not spoken of in the year to follow—for the Fellowship’s quest was to remain secret—ever did the King’s thoughts remain at Legolas’ side. 

* * * 

The King’s own guard escorted Glorfindel, Gimli, Orimhedil, Lhûn, and Legolas to the Forest Gate. If the realm seemed darker and the trees more melancholy, naught was spoken of it. One Elf of Mirkwood would never return, and perhaps similar fate awaited a second. 

After the initial shock wore off, Legolas had taken his eldest brother’s decision to depart West with quiet, albeit saddened, acceptance. Thranduil rightly suspected it had been Lhûn’s choice of words—that he “felt within his heart he must go,”—which swayed the youngest prince. 

Lhûn exchanged fond farewell with the King’s soldiers and rode proudly into the rolling brown fields stretched before them. Unlike Legolas, he did not look back. 

_‘I have wandered over every branch and beneath every leaf for countless years,’_ he thought as the trees swayed mournfully. _‘Ever shall the Greenwood grow tall and fair within my heart. I need no parting glance or words of sorrow.’_

The company traveled swiftly in the days that followed. Autumn was overtaken by Winter, and the sky remained grey and distant for a majority of the journey. Snow softly dusted the land as they reached Grimbeorn’s pastures. They were not surprised to find the Carrock absent, though it was with much disappointment on Gimli’s part that he was not allowed to return his pony. 

“You are now able to ride her without aid,” said Glorfindel, “and long are we overdue in Imladris. Keep the pony with you for now, Master Dwarf. She will hasten our journey.” 

Thin layers of ice had begun to form at the very edge of the Ford, though the rushing waters would prevent it from freezing over even at winter’s height. The company crossed with relative ease—save minor incident involving Gimli and a flock of migratory geese—and continued on. 

By the end of the week the Misty Mountains, half-robed in their namesake mist, loomed ahead. Snow fell constantly, but did not stick, and arctic winds promised of frigid days to come. The few frost-coated leaves clinging stubbornly to their trees shivered violently; the land resigned itself to the dreary browns and slate greys of winter. 

Signs of the Enemy were ever apparent—most of them familiar, some disturbingly not—and the company engaged in several skirmishes with wolves and trolls along the way. Glorfindel was thankful Gimli and Legolas seemed to have reached an unspoken truce, leaving the company to rest and regroup during the rare moments of less perilous travel. Legolas did not stray far from Lhûn’s side, whereas Gimli’s concentration was bent on keeping his mischievous pony under control. 

The two exchanged no words, and generally avoided one another as much as was possible. Every so often Elf and Dwarf would meet eyes, and the flashes of uncomfortable recollection followed by stifled disdain did not go unnoticed by Glorfindel. But the Elf lord did not complain. After all, Legolas and Gimli did not have to become friends; they merely had to put up with one another. 

At last they reached the High Pass. Snow fell thick and fierce, and the stinging wind shrieked as it scraped over jagged black boulders. Orimhedil relinquished a pouch of silver coins to a grim-faced woodsman guard, while Gimli took to loud mutterings of tolls and taxes. 

“Beware,” the guard warned in muffled tones, so bundled in winter clothing he more resembled a mound of fabric. “The Pass isn’t as manned this week. Many have gone over to the western side to await the attack.” 

“Attack?” Glorfindel asked. 

The toll guard nodded and quickly recounted the plans of Rivendell. 

Glorfindel’s smooth brow furrowed in concern. “Slingshots, you say?” That did not sound like something from the mind of Elrond or Erestor. 

Lhûn grimaced. “I am not sure charging the Enemy is the wisest decision. The consequences of such actions are far too unpredictable.” 

The bundled mound that was the woodsman shrugged. “I didn’t make the plan, I only follow it.” 

Bidding the toll man swift thanks, they plunged through the treacherous Pass with grim resolve. The journey was harrowing as the last: the giants were active, the weather was fierce, and the mountain itself seemed weary of travelers. Though nearly bested by a small avalanche, the company nonetheless toiled on. 

It was with no small relief when at last they cleared the High Pass. The drained company swiftly descended the wintry peaks into warmer, mist-shrouded slopes below. 

“At this rate, we shall reach Imladris’ borders by the evening,” Glorfindel announced with visible relief. 

* * * 

Their trek came to an abrupt halt when a strange blast pierced the evening air with bold authority. The entire party straightened. “What was that?” asked Orimhedil. 

Glorfindel shook his head. “I know not. Strange, it sounded as though some manner of horn…” 

Legolas peered into the growing darkness. “Was it call of friend or foe, I wonder?” 

To that, the golden-haired captain of Imladris had no answer. 

“I recall such a sound,” Lhûn said slowly, eyes growing distant as he sifted through years of memories. A second blast perforated the gloam. His eyes narrowed. “Yes, yes I am positive I have heard that call before, though long it has been...” 

Gimli shifted impatiently atop his steed. If there were orcs to be killed, they shouldn’t be standing around reminiscing. 

“The House of Vorondacil,* Men under command of Elendil, would often sound their horns before riding to battle.” A small frown graced Lhûn’s face. “Greenwood’s forces joined them upon the fields but once or twice, yet still do I remember their calls. Though skilled in battle as far as Men go, I believe they were known for their clamor above all else. Often did my brother Orodil write to me—“ A pained expression flickered across his face, and he abruptly checked his words. 

The others waited for him to continue, but he did not. Legolas suppressed a sigh of disappointment. He knew too little of his famed brother Orodil, as the deceased prince was seldom spoken of. 

“House of Vorondacil?” Glorfindel’s golden eyebrows knit together in thought. “Which later became the House of Hurin… the ruling Stewards…” He blinked and straightened in the saddle. “The Steward’s son was present at Council.” 

“But he traveled west with Aragorn,” Legolas argued. “He cannot be upon these hills.” 

“Undoubtedly some battle rages,” Orimhedil commented, head tilted slightly to one side as he listened into the night. 

The party grew silent, ears picking up the faint sounds of chaos below. 

A low and impatient rumble erupted from Gimli’s barreled chest. “You lot can stand here and recite history or contemplate the journeys of Men all night. _I_ am going to aid our comrades.” 

With that, the Dwarf tugged on the reins of his fat pony and kicked her flanks. 

He succeeded in making the animal complete a full circle. “No! Argh—dumb beast! Go _forward_.” 

He tugged upon the reins a second time. The pony half-reared. Legolas and Lhûn exchanged amused glances. “Lord Glorfindel,” bellowed the Dwarf, “how do I make it go forward?” 

“Gimli,” the Elf lord calmly replied, “you send her too many signals. She is confused.” 

“Durin’s beard!” The Dwarf slid awkwardly from the saddle. “My own two legs are more useful than that confounded beast’s four.” 

Axe aloft, he disappeared into the eaves with far more speed than the Elves accredited his kind. After the initial shock of the Dwarf’s actions wore off, Glorfindel sprang from his steed and sprinted after the son of Glóin. Orimhedil, Legolas, and Lhûn were not far behind. 

“Ho, orcs!” The Dwarf’s cries thundered throughout the mist-laden forest. “Come taste the steel of Dwarven axe—it is a treat you’ll not soon forget!” 

“This is madness!” Lhûn leapt to the tree branches, darting through leaf and mist. “I do not even wish to fight!” 

Legolas grinned as he bounded past his brother, bright eyes gleaming at the prospect of battle. “It shall be your last ere you depart, I suggest you enjoy it while you can. Hurry! Let us not allow the Dwarf to slay all our quarry.” 

Lhûn groaned and muttered some impressive Silvan curses under his breath. _‘It is not a game, Legolas. One day you shall realize this.’_

Oddly enough, Lhûn was happy he would not be around to witness that day. 

The smell of orc grew more prominent as the small company charged down the steep hillside. Glorfindel felt the blood surge and boil beneath his calm exterior. Reserved Elf lord vanished and was replaced by full-fledged Noldor Warrior. 

He had journeyed with Gimli and Legolas for a month. _Someone_ was going to pay for this. 

The final brilliant rays of sun extinguished, yet the sky remained clear and bright in the moonlight. Black bodies soared overhead, their shrieks of dismay trailing after them and coming to abrupt halt upon meeting earth or tree. 

“Slingshots! The slingshots have worked!” Orimhedil laughed in triumph. “Imladris is saved!” 

“The Enemy approaches,” Lhûn called from the trees, voice void of any mirth. He swiftly readied his bow. 

At his brother’s side Legolas was quick to do the same, expert eye peering through pearly mist and discerning the approaching forms. Orimhedil hastened to reach Glorfindel. 

“Circle to the right,” ordered Lhûn, falling into years of practiced command. “I shall take the left. Remain in the canopy above the mist. Glorfindel and Orimhedil will not stray from the Dwarf; let us provide them with cover.” 

Legolas offered a sharp nod in reply, and the two Mirkwood Elves quickly parted. 

Glorfindel moved lightly, blade sweeping side to side in precise two-handed arcs as he hewed down any dark creatures in his path. The ease at which he did so surprised even himself. The orcs meeting him seemed to do so out of pure accident. _‘They are fleeing,’_ he realized, dispatching another foul beast with a flick of the wrist. He was an unexpected obstacle in their dash to safety. 

Twin growls of surprise erupted from an Orkish duo upon finding themselves face-to-face with the golden-haired Elf lord. Glorfindel quickly swung upward and parried the orc who drew first, blades meeting in a resounding clash of mithril upon steel. 

The second orc barely had time to reach for his sword before he fell, transfixed by a gold-fletched arrow to the forehead. Glorfindel’s foe met a similar fate, a green-fletched shaft suddenly sprouting from his neck. 

The Elf lord lifted one hand in swift thanks before driving forward; words of gratitude could be spared for a later time. 

Legolas quickly sighted one of three orcs about to meet Orimhedil. Targets must be chosen carefully. He and Lhûn had not enough arrows between them to eliminate an entire Orkish army, and if the enemy was not killed immediately, there posed an even greater threat of wounded orcs lying concealed within the mist. 

Orimhedil and Glorfindel converged with the squat form of Gimli amidst the swirling vapors. The Dwarf swung at fleeing orcs as one might hack small saplings, felling Sauron’s minions with single, heavy blows. 

_‘His skills certainly lack in refinement,’_ thought Legolas with slight disdain, unwilling to admit it yet grudgingly impressed nonetheless. The Dwarf _had_ managed to give him a few noteworthy punches, now that he thought about it, but that was beside the point. 

He rapidly nocked an arrow, bowstring singing at its release. The shaft flew straight and true; the orc intending to blindside the Dwarf dropped like a stone. 

“Gimli!” Glorfindel stood back-to-back with Orimhedil, leaving his left side slightly exposed. Green and gold fletched arrows flew from a tree at his left, courtesy of the two Mirkwood archers. “Son of Glóin—do not chase after the Enemy! Remain with us!” 

Seeing the wisdom of the Elf’s orders, Gimli grudgingly complied. Swiping at passing orcs, he slowly backed his way towards the two Rivendell Elves. 

An arrow-pierced body fell heavily at the edge of his peripheral vision. Gimli disguised his jump of shock as a duck, dropping to his knees and swinging at a passing orc’s ankles. The creature crumpled with a yowl of anguish, cut short as Gimli drove his axe into the beast’s chest. 

Panting, he lunged to his feet and continued his retreat, until he stood at the head of a triangular formation with Glorfindel and Orimhedil. 

He was going to pretend he never saw that green-fletched arrow protruding from the orc’s neck. And if the Elf _ever_ brought it up… 

Gimli growled and sent yet another orc into blissful oblivion. 

Piercing eagle cries shattered the crystalline sky above, and the tide of orcs gradually ebbed. The young Windlords were too large to dive into the forest eaves, but the terror they instilled within the orcs drove the dark beasts onward. 

The small company stood alert, blood still burning with the rush of battle. 

“I believe there are stragglers ahead,” said Glorfindel, pale face alive and flushed with exuberance. “The Woodsmen and Beornings await those who have passed us, but let us make sure none of the remaining Enemy is left unscathed.” 

At the Imladris captain’s lead, the party once again moved to strike within the darkened forest. 

* * * 

Aragorn drove his sword into the midsection of an unfortunate orc, gritting his teeth as the creature released a sickening scream and sank to its knees. He freed his sword with a vicious yank. _‘We have fared surprisingly well thus far.’_

As far as he could tell, he had sustained only minor nicks and bruises, the thick mist was lifting a bit, and the orcs appeared to be thinning. Mayhap luck would favor he and Boromir for once. 

He whirled, sensing rather than hearing his opponent, and found himself swiftly disarmed and lifted effortlessly off the ground by the front of his tunic. “Never shall you foul Imladris’ fair borders,” his captor snarled. 

Aragorn choked and attempted to wrest himself free of the iron grasp. “Glorfindel?” he managed to wheeze, just as the Elf lord made move to run him through. 

The golden-haired Elf stopped short. 

“ 'S me, ‘rgo’n!” Aragorn writhed and desperately hit the Elf lord’s fist, hoping Glorfindel would release him before he choked to death. 

Glorfindel’s battle-lit eyes narrowed and regarded him quizzically. He blinked. “Aragorn? _Aragorn?_ ” He instantly released the man. “By the Light of Valinor, what has happened to you?” 

Aragorn winced and greedily sucked in air. “Pitch, and—,” his brow furrowed as he noticed the Elf lord’s burnt locks. “What has happened to you?” 

Glorfindel’s normally calm visage darkened for a brief moment. 

_“Aragorn?”_

Aragorn looked around Glorfindel and identified the owner of the second voice. “Legolas.” 

Puzzled amusement flashed across the Elf’s face as he sheathed his hunting knife and bounded over an errant orc body. “Were you not supposed to travel west? And what in the name of Eru are you covered in?” 

“It is a complicated matter that I—Legolas, your eyebrows…” He scrutinized the archer’s face. “Is that a split lip?” 

The Elf lifted his chin with an air of indifference, though Aragorn thought he detected a faint blush. Yes, Legolas’ bottom lip was definitely swollen and puckered. “A tale of little importance,” said the Elf. “I shall not bore you with its dull details.” 

Gimli, wiping gore from his axe blade with a worn buckskin cloth, emitted a loud snort. Aragorn glanced at the Dwarf, whose beard was significantly shorter and somewhat singed since their last meeting. The black eye was a new addition as well. Both Elf and Dwarf, Aragorn noted, were making a point not to look at one other. 

Glorfindel released an exasperated sigh. “Aragorn, where is the rest of your company? I see you have the son of Denethor at your side, but I sense no others.” He blinked and shook his golden head. “And what _are_ you doing on this side of Imladris?” 

“Circumstances forced us to part ways,” said Aragorn. “And then Boromir and I had a most unfortunate meeting with the orcs…” He trailed off and shuddered at the memory of his last sleeping arrangement. 

“It almost appears as though you attempted to join them, son of Arathorn,” spoke a smooth and somewhat disdainful voice. 

Aragorn turned and bowed stiffly upon recognizing Lhûn. “My lord prince. A star shines on the hour of our meeting.” 

Lhûn stiffly bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “And may your paths be forever green, Estel. It is good to see you again.” 

Aragorn didn’t quite believe him. The House of Oropher, with the exception of Legolas, generally tolerated him as one did the giant moths of Mirkwood: a pest or nuisance that could not be completely done away with, and so must be endured. 

Then again, Aragorn never had made a particularly good impression upon the Wood-Elves. His first visit resulted in the near-death of Mallos, and his last involved a severely bedraggled showing, complete with one howling Gollum in tow. Only Legolas seemed to enjoy the uproar. 

Lhûn’s silvery eyes traveled over the tarred Ranger, flickering in distaste. Legolas tactfully positioned himself in front of Aragorn. “The hour grows late,” said the younger Elf with a calm smile, feigning ignorance while he shielded the man. “And though the night is clear and the stars merry, I would rather we spend it beneath Lord Elrond’s friendly eaves.” 

“A wise suggestion, Thranduilion—and one we shall heed.” Glorfindel offered Thranduil’s youngest son a ghost of a smile. _‘Well done, Legolas.’_ Legolas serenely inclined his head in return. 

Gimli hoisted his axe over one shoulder and began trundling down the hill, heedless of the many Orkish bodies underfoot. “Then why do we stand here? Lead the way! I have spent enough time wandering cursed woods. I would much sooner sit before the warmth of a fire than beneath the frosty trees.” 

Something flared within Legolas. Perhaps it was a culmination of recent events: the difficult journey, the words exchanged with his father, the departure of Lhûn, the forest blight, the constant battle of wills with Gimli—he could not say. All he knew was that the Dwarf’s words seemed particularly insulting to Mirkwood. “Indeed,” he sharply replied, finding himself overwhelmingly weary of the Dwarf’s presence. “For we would not have you freeze to death, or perhaps flattened by a ‘cursed’ tree’s unfortunate topple.” 

The Unspoken Truce vanished. Snide comments and retorts, long held at bay, were quickly released on either side. 

“And it would be a shame were some fist were to accidentally meet your face.” 

“Nay, Dwarf. I do not think that likely. Those who would try to are far too stunted and cannot reach such lofty heights. In truth, I am more concerned over the fate of my ankles.” 

_“Legolas,”_ Lhûn snapped in the two Elves’ native tongue, _“cease arguing with it.”_

Glorfindel placed a hand upon Aragorn’s shoulder and smiled mirthlessly. “They rest in your hands now.” He gave the man a quick pat. “You have my deepest sympathies.” 

Night sky stretched smooth and clear above them, the moon and stars bathing the land in soft glow. Boromir felt strangely out of place. Sighing, he glanced to the heavens and tried to ignore the squabbling Elf and Dwarf. He could not remember the stars ever shining so brightly in Gondor. And was it his imagination, or were the Elves glowing too? 

His shoulder twitched. 

_‘If orcs can fall from the sky, I suppose Elves can glow as well.’_

It had been a strange day, and an even stranger month. 

* * * 

Dry eaves moved quietly in the night wind. Autumn somehow seemed less bitter inside the Elven realm. Elrond’s brow furrowed in concentration, sensing the Enemy’s shadow as it slowly withdrew and slid back to darker corners. 

“Put me down!” 

Elrond opened his eyes and turned to look across the courtyard. He barely suppressed a laugh at the sight of Erestor, balancing one hobbit on each hip as one would a small child. 

“I said,” Merry repeated in vexation, “ _put me down!”_

“I will not have you running back into the fray,” Erestor replied, bouncing the hobbit on his hip. 

Elrond disguised his laugh as a cough. 

“My Lord?” Erestor stopped mid-bounce while Merry growled and writhed. “Is all well?” 

“Yes, Erestor.” Elrond nodded, corners of his mouth twitching. “Erestor, do put the hobbits down.” 

“Of course, My Lord.” Erestor acknowledged the dark-haired Elf with a pert nod and gently released the hobbits. 

Pippin yelped in surprise when the advisor absently straightened his vest. 

“The battle appeared to favor our forces,” said Erestor, reaching out to smooth Merry’s crumpled collar. 

“Don’t you dare,” the hobbit growled. He jerked backwards and swiped at the Elf’s slender hand. 

Erestor pursed his lips and straightened indignantly. Elrond again coughed. 

“The battle is won—for now,” Elrond replied, mood growing somber. “But there will be many more, I fear. Not all shall end so fortunately.” 

“But this one has,” cried Pippin. “And that is good enough for me!” 

Elrond smiled kindly at the hobbit. 

“It is for now, Pippin,” Merry gently corrected, catching a glimpse of underlying sadness in the Elf lord’s gaze. “Come on, let’s go see what Sam and Bilbo have been up to! I’m sure they’ll love to hear our tale.” Pulling at his cousin’s hand, Merry led the younger hobbit off into the night. 

“Such a merry folk,” Erestor wistfully commented, watching the two hobbits as they laughed and retreated into the guest quarters. His face grew somber. “Such sacrifices they will make. It grieves me to no end.” 

Elrond made no reply. _‘Yes, my old friend. I feel guilt even more so than you.’_

“But they are perhaps stronger than even we,” Erestor continued, expecting the other’s silence, “in their own peculiar way.” A gentle smile lit the Elf’s fair face. “I can think of no others better fit for the task at hand. But come—enough of my dreary words! We have just won a battle, have we not? A celebration is in order, for it is not every day we repel the forces of Sauron.” 

Elrond could not disagree, and the two Elves retreated to the main hall as songs of victory began to swell above Imladris’ sleepy boughs. 

“Should my sons inquire,” said Elrond, “I was present at the very front lines.” 

Erestor bobbed his head. “And I at your side, My Lord.” 

“We fought well.” 

“Brilliantly, if I may say so.” 

“Quite.” 

Small lanterns flared to life throughout the realm, dancing in darkness and moonlight like tiny fireflies. Laughter rang clear and strong; melodies both old and new rose to greet the stars. 

Elrond’s realm shone bright with merriment, and for a small while, the Enemy was but a forgotten shadow. 

_The day is done,_

_The battle won,_

_And now I bid adieu!_

_But do not cry,_

_Or shout, or sigh:_

_For now we start anew!_

******** 

_The House of Vorondacil-- Boromir’s family is from the House of Hurin. However, as this House isn’t mentioned until after they take over the throne, they were probably known by a different name during the Last Alliance._


	38. Epilogue:  Put a Fork in It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

The following days in the Last Homely House were marked by many homecomings and re-acquaintances. Though the news brought by returning scouts was anything but promising, all were thankful to have arrived safely.

Gandalf the Grey and a wearied Ringbearer returned the day after Aragorn, Boromir, and Glorfindel’s party reached Elrond’s halls. The southern scouts were quick to follow, and were soon joined by the western party of Halbarad, Rowgond, and Malbeorn as well. Last to return were the proud sons of Elrond, ageless faces grim and bespeaking ill tidings—though they would speak to no one of it save Elrond. 

“Already you know more than is needed,” Elladan firmly replied when Aragorn pressed him. 

It was shortly after this that Aragorn interrupted the tail end of hushed conversation between Lhûn and Legolas. Legolas’ ensuing quiet pensiveness led Aragorn to believe he too knew more than he let on. However, his attempts to glean more information from the Elf proved fruitless. 

“They are matters that do not directly affect us,” the Elf replied with a graceful shrug. “We have no cause to fret over them.” 

Aragorn was not sure if it was the Elf’s inexperience or stubbornness that allowed him to so easily dismiss things. As for himself, he could not stand being left in the dark. Having braved the wilds with his fellow Dúnedain, knowledge of the enemy’s manner and intent—being able to anticipate his foe’s movement—was often the only thing that kept him alive. The tight-lipped practices of his companions were maddening. 

_‘If it is not within range of his bow,’_ the man thought in aggravation, _‘or poised for direct attack, he merely shrugs and smiles.’_

“Know this,” Legolas had announced quite unexpectedly, pinning the Ranger with an impressive stare. “Ever shall I follow you—without question or doubt in my heart.” 

He dipped his head in respect and moved away, leaving Aragorn alone with his thoughts. 

* * * 

Halbarad strode jauntily through Elrond’s halls, munching an apple and enjoying the sound of his footfalls within the hushed corridors. He knew the Elves found it somewhat unnerving. Which made it all the more entertaining. 

He froze, eyes darting over the empty hallway. Someone was following him. He slowly took another bite of the apple and chewed suspiciously. Aside from his crunches, only silence greeted his well-trained ears. “I know you are there,” he called out, words hollow sounding in the empty corridor. He received no answer. 

Putting the half-eaten apple into his pocket, the dark-haired Ranger gave his hunting knife an experimental twirl. “Hear this,” he said in exasperation. “I have very important matters to attend to. Why do we not get this little tiff over with so that I may be on my way?” 

“Very well.” An icy voice snapped from a location Halbarad couldn’t pinpoint. 

The Ranger jumped; he had just begun to think there really was no one else in the hall. At that moment, someone grabbed his wrist from behind, wretched him around, and pinned him bodily to the wall. 

“Ooph.” Halbarad winced as the wind was knocked out of him, and a picture frame dug uncomfortably into his back. “El—ah— _you._ ” Not quite sure which son of Elrond had him pinioned (they did rather look alike), Halbarad offered the Elf a cheeky grin. 

It quickly faded under the Elf’s murderous gaze, and the equally murderous blade pressed against the Ranger’s throat. 

“Do you see this blade?” The son of Elrond’s face was pinched with rage. 

Halbarad started to nod, then thought better of it as the mithril bit into his neck. “Yes. It is rather difficult to miss.” 

The Elf’s face darkened in true Elrond fashion. “This blade was a gift to me upon my begetting day. Elladan received one as well.” 

“Ah.” _‘Which means this must be Elrohir.’_

“They are priceless,” Elrohir continued, “of ancient Noldor craft.” His grey eyes narrowed. “Elladan has lost his.” 

“That is a shame.” Halbarad gingerly placed a restraining hand on the Elf’s arm, should Elrohir’s wrist accidentally slip. “I am much aggrieved to hear it, but I fail to see what I—“ 

“HE LOST IT IN A WAGER!” 

Halbarad winced. “Oh. I see.” 

During Aragorn’s first travels with the Dúnedain, Elladan and Elrohir often joined him. It was on one such journey that Halbarad introduced them to taverns and the art of gamboling. Unfortunately, Elladan had an inherent compulsive streak, and was a bit too fond of playing the stakes. Even worse was the fact he was not very good at it. 

Though he claimed he could quit whenever he wished, Elladan had lost, to date: Four barrels of vintage wine to Legolas’ brothers Calengaladh and Mallos, three prize stallions in Rohan, an embroidered doeskin sack to a nine year old girl in Hollin, a coat of mail, one set of dress robes, four lace doilies to Gandalf and the matching tablecloth to Radagast, and now, his begetting day knife. 

Elrohir tried to right things as best he could, for the two brothers were immensely protective of one another, but Elladan’s losses were becoming more difficult to conceal. 

Halbarad had inadvertently created a gamboling addict. 

“I see,” the Ranger innocently repeated. “Did he get it back?” 

He swore Elrohir was going to explode. The Elf’s nostrils flared. 

“I take that as a no…” 

“Upon my oath, Halbarad, if he loses another bet— _you shall pay for it!_ ” Elrohir’s eyebrows knit into a single, dangerous line. “This is all your fault! If you had never taken us to that ridiculous tavern, he would not have this problem!” 

Despite the knife at his throat, Halbarad snorted. “Elrohir, _please_. It is your fault for listening to me in the first place. Surely you know better.” 

Having no retort, for Halbarad was right—they should know better than to listen to him—Elrohir had to settle for snarling and pressing the knife further against the other’s throat. 

“I do not think you wish to do that my friend.” Halbarad’s grin turned decidedly smug, reminding Elrohir of just how aggravating the Ranger could be. 

Elrohir shot him a withering look. 

“It would be in poor taste were you to murder the newly appointed Chief of the Dúnedain of the North.” Despite his awkward position, Halbarad managed to end the statement with a grand flourish of the hands. His grin grew even cheekier, if indeed such a thing were possible. 

Elrohir rolled his eyes in a very un-Elflike manner, then scrutinized the other’s face when Halbarad gave no indication of jest. He lowered the knife. “Aragorn is Chief of the Dúnedain—not you. A person would not be in his right mind to name you chief of anything. And as it is, only Aragorn has power to name…” Elrohir trailed off in disbelief. “He did not.” 

Pushing the Elf’s arm away from his chest, Halbarad looped an arm over Elrohir’s shoulder. “I think he shall make a fine king.” 

Elrohir muttered something under his breath, of which Halbarad could only make out “death of us” and “ruin.” 

Deftly removing Halbarad’s arm, the Elf collected himself and lifted his chin somewhat imperiously. “Give me your hunting knife and we shall call it even.” 

“Nay— _you_ shall call it even. _I_ shall call it stealing.” 

“Very well.” Elrohir’s face belied grave defeat. Halbarad was not fooled. “You leave me no other choice.” 

Halbarad tensed. 

“I bid you good day, Halbarad Chief of the Dúnedain.” Elrohir bowed fluidly before turning on his heel and departing. 

It took Halbarad several moments to make sense of what occurred. “Wait!” he called to the Elf’s retreating form. “Elrohir—wait!” 

The Elf cast a smooth glance over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in elegant question. “Yes?” 

Halbarad barely kept himself from sputtering. “That is all? No threats or oaths of vengeance?” 

Elrohir merely smiled and gave his head a sleek shake. 

Halbarad sighed heavily. “What are you going to do? Tell me.” 

Elrohir’s smile widened until it turned positively wicked, magnified even more so by the Elf’s fair face. “And where, my dear Ranger, is the fun in that?” 

“Take it,” Halbarad flatly replied, holding the knife out haft-first to the tall Elf. “Just take it.” He had seen enough of Elrohir’s “fun” to know better than to be on the receiving end of it. 

Elrohir glided back to the Ranger and promptly plucked the knife from Halbarad’s hands. “You are most generous.” Smiling, he offered the Ranger a mock bow. 

Halbarad half-grimaced in reply. “It is my pleasure.” His face melted to a sour expression as he watched the lithe son of Elrond retreat down the corridor. He was rather fond of that knife. Mayhap he could challenge Elladan to some sort of wager and win it back… 

* * * 

“I marvel that you managed to remove the tar from him.” 

Glorfindel, Elrond, and Erestor stood upon the balcony outside Rivendell’s library, observing the gathered Fellowship in the garden below. 

Elrond gave his head a wry shake, eyes settling on the scrubbed and slightly ruddy-looking Aragorn. “You would be surprised, Glorfindel, what remedies the twins have forced me to unearth over the years.” 

“How fares Shadowfax?” asked Erestor. 

“A horribly vain glutton, that one,” Glorfindel mildly remarked. “Asfaloth may be temperamental, but I thank the Valar he does not behave as Shadowfax.” 

“He is well and being tended to,” Elrond replied. “Rather bruised in body and ego, though not quite undeserving of it.” 

Glorfindel nodded, folding his arms across his chest and watching the antics of Merry and Pippin below. “Erestor,” his eyes remained trained on the hobbits, “please cease staring at my hair.” 

Erestor had the decency to flush. “I apologize, but it is rather… _noticeable._ ” 

In attempt to control the shortened front locks, Glorfindel had braided his hair at the sides as was fashionable amongst archers. Nonetheless, a few stubborn tufts refused to be cowed. 

The golden-haired Elf scowled and decided to change the path of conversation. “I am curious to know what was in the letter Thranduil sent back with us.” He shot Elrond a questioning look. 

Elrond sighed; after everything Glorfindel had been through, he supposed he probably owed it to the Elf. “Ah, yes. The esteemed King of the Woodland Realm sends his warmest regards, and promises to have my head should any ill befall Legolas.” 

Erestor blanched, thoroughly scandalized Thranduil would dare make such remarks. “He did not.” 

“In so many words,” Elrond wryly replied. “I expected no less of him.” 

Glorfindel furrowed his brow. “That is a rather impossible task. Of course he knows this…” 

Elrond nodded absently. “But that is Thranduil. As I said: I expected no less of him.” 

“Do you wish to send a second Elf with Legolas?” asked Erestor. 

Elrond pursed his lips. “Nay, for I believe Elladan and Elrohir will wish to join Aragorn, and thus Legolas, in the later stages of the Fellowship’s journey. And though he would not admit it, such action would greatly appease Thranduil.” 

Erestor and Glorfindel murmured in agreement. 

“Let us be thankful all has worked out thus far,” said Erestor. “And now we may enjoy slight reprieve.” 

Glorfindel sighed. “The ‘calm before the storm,’ as they say. But yes, let us enjoy it nonetheless.” 

* * * 

“Right, so: Greetings all.” Pippin smiled and waved cheerfully to the odd collection of Races gathered in the garden. He received a variety of replies; some seemed notably less thrilled about the situation than others. Frodo and Sam grinned back, and Merry voiced a gusty “Hullo, Pippin.” Gandalf cheerfully raised his pipe in salute. Gimli grunted, Aragorn inclined his head, and Legolas stared at him in a cross between amusement and perplexion. Boromir merely raised an eyebrow. 

“Er,” the hobbit faltered, unnerved by so many eyes suddenly trained upon him. He nervously toyed with the apple in his hand. 

Merry hastily intervened. “We’re going to play a game.” 

“A game?” Boromir asked. 

“Yes.” Pippin nodded emphatically. “A getting-to-know-you game.” 

A collective groan arose. 

“For example,” said Merry, ignoring the protests, “I have this apple, so I say: ‘Hello, my name is Meriadoc Brandybuck—or Merry. I am a _hobbit_ from the _Shire,_ and I enjoy drawing.” 

“Then he passes the apple to me,” said Pippin, holding out his hands. Merry tossed him the apple. “And I say: Hello, my name is Peregrin Took, or Pippin if you like. I am also a hobbit from the Shire. I enjoy… I enjoy flying. On Eagles,” he hastily added, noting the blank stares he received. “I enjoy flying on Eagles.” 

An awkward silence followed. Gandalf sneezed, though it could have been a chuckle. 

“Are you not supposed to repeat the statement of the one before you?” Legolas finally asked, head cocked to one side. He received a look of bemusement from Aragorn. The Elf glanced towards the Ranger, shrugged unapologetically, and leaned back against his tree. 

Pippin’s mouth remained open as he pondered the idea. “Oh, well, yes. I suppose we could do that, Mister Elf.” 

Gandalf’s lips quirked. 

Aragorn cleared his throat. “Why do we not simply greet one another by traditional means?” Uncrossing his legs, the dark-haired man rose to his feet. With height came authority. 

The garden was soon alive with a flurry of introductions. 

“Gimli, son of Glóin of the Lonely Mountain, at your service.” The Dwarf bowed low before offering a broad and well-calloused hand. 

Boromir hesitated. He had never seen a Dwarf up close before. “Boromir, son of Denethor II Steward of Gondor.” He grasped the Dwarf’s forearm; grey eyes meeting brown, and the two exchanged a hearty shake. Boromir smiled appreciatively. The Dwarf was solid and straightforward—traits he both knew and admired. Giving the other a quick nod, Boromir turned to one of the hobbits, just as the smaller being turned to his neighbor. 

“Pippin, hobbit of the Shire,” said the curly-haired youngster to his companion. 

The second hobbit scowled. “Pippin, you dolt—I already know who you are.” 

They both turned to Boromir. “Pippin,” stated the one on Boromir’s right. “Merry,” stated the one to his left. 

Boromir grasped both by the forearm. “Boromir of Gondor.” 

“Nice to meet you, Boromir,” said Pippin. Or perhaps it was Merry. 

“I’m Samwise Gamgee.” The roundest of the hobbits approached shyly, and graciously took Boromir’s hand. 

Boromir greeted him in similar fashion. 

“Frodo Baggins, of the Shire.” 

Something odd traveled through Boromir when he grasped the Ringbearer’s arm, though what it was he could not identify. Frodo must have felt it as well, for a shadow flickered across his eyes and his smile wavered. 

“Gandalf.” 

Boromir blinked and shook off the strange feeling. The wizard’s hand was directly in front of his face. 

“Boromir, son of Denethor II, Ruling Steward of Gondor,” he recited. His eyes widened in surprise—the wizard’s hands were not ancient and gnarled as he had expected. 

Gandalf’s grey eyes twinkled beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Delighted to meet you, Boromir. Delighted.” 

_‘Odd fellow,’_ Boromir thought, watching the wizard sweep gaily to Frodo. He turned his head to seek out a new acquaintance, and nearly jumped upon finding the Elf standing directly in front of him. 

“Legolas of the Woodland Realm.” The Elf extended a lithe arm in a motion as fluid as his speech. Judging from the Elf’s posture, Boromir gathered he was not overly fond of close contact. 

“Boromir, son of Denethor II Steward of Gondor.” Grasping the other’s forearm, he was again surprised at the unexpected strength within the other. 

“I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, son of Denethor.” The Elf bowed gracefully. Boromir tried to shake off the strange awe he felt at the Elf’s presence. It was almost unsettling. 

He was further unsettled upon finding the Heir of Isildur standing before him. Grey eyes met grey. Boromir stiffened unconsciously, sensing the air increase in tension. 

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” The dark-haired Ranger offered his arm without hesitation, his expression unreadable. He leaned in and dropped his voice so that none would over-hear—save perhaps Legolas whose keen ears missed little. “Also known as Strider,” Aragorn continued, sending the other a conspiratory wink. “Black Rider and kidnapper of fair bar maidens.” 

Boromir chuckled. “Boromir of Gondor.” He clapped the other on the shoulder before lowering his voice as well. “Also known as Borofara, fellow Black Rider and kidnapper of fair bar maidens.” 

Pulling apart, the two men grinned and dissolved into hearty laughter. 

“I should say we are all acquainted now,” said Gandalf, reaching up to adjust the brim of his new hat. It wasn’t as worn as his first, and the point tended to flop forward rather than backward. 

“They didn’t shake.” Pippin pointed accusingly to Gimli and Legolas, who were standing on opposite sides of the garden and pretending not to notice one another. 

“I am sure they had every intention of doing so.” There was a note of authoritative warning in Aragorn’s voice, which caused Legolas to raise an eyebrow at the Ranger. 

_‘Do not test me,’_ Aragorn silently warned, knowing full well the Elf was entertaining such thoughts. 

There was an odd flash in the Elf’s eyes, and Legolas scowled. Then, to Aragorn’s utter surprise, Legolas sighed in resignation and walked stiffly to stand before the Dwarf. 

The two eyed one another, bright clear gaze meeting deep earthen stare. Gandalf sighed loudly and leaned against his staff. “Come now, we haven’t all day.” 

Legolas closed his eyes and seemed to gather himself. “Legolas of the Woodland Realm.” He thrust out an arm. 

Gimli drew himself to his full height, though standing in front of the tall Elf as he was, it made little difference. “Gimli of the Lonely Mountain.” 

Elf and Dwarf grasped forearms and exchanged a resolute shake. An astute onlooker, such as Aragorn, noticed both were trying not to grimace while simultaneously attempting to squeeze the other’s arm as hard as possible. 

“Lord Elrond has prepared a grand luncheon for us in the main hall,” Gandalf announced as Gimli and Legolas released their iron grip. “Let us enjoy the fine meal and company while we still can.” 

The mismatched group slowly filed from the garden, led by the cheerfully humming wizard. 

“I have the sneaking suspicion Gimli had a part to play with that fat lip of yours.” Aragorn shot Legolas a glance of curiosity as the Elf fell into step with him. “I would love to hear the tale.” 

“Did you not refer to yourself as ‘Aragorn, Black Rider and Kidnapper?’” came the Elf’s innocent response. 

A wry smile graced the man’s face and he threw up his hands. “Fair enough, my friend, fair enough.” 

“Indeed.” The Elf’s face broke into a smile. “It has been quite an interesting end to the beginning, has it not?” 

“Aye.” Aragorn looked to the heavens as though the Fellowship’s impending journey lay foretold amidst the feathery clouds, and shook his head. “And I have a feeling the future shall be an even greater tale.” 


	39. Author Acknowledgements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior to their journey, the Fellowship remained in Rivendell for two

_One day about two years ago or so ago, I happened to stumble across the world of fanfiction. I was awed and inspired—there are so many wonderfully talented authors! You guys make the world a better place by sharing your gifts with the rest of us. I was perfectly content to read and read and read and read (such amazing tales you all write!), and then one day, after re-reading Thundera Tiger’s ‘While the Ring Went South,’ I was (quite unexpectedly) bitten by a Plot Bunny known only to me as “Frying Pan.” I pondered over the thing for a few weeks, attempted to throw it away, then wrote it down in a notebook and forgot about it. Two months later, still plagued by the Plot Bunny, I managed to overcome my paranoia and terrors of exposure concerning Random People reading what I write (okay actually so maybe my stomach still does get all nervous and queasy whenever I post something but that’s besides the point) and posted the darn thing._

_I had NO IDEA what I was getting myself into. I had NO IDEA what to expect._

_Thank you all from the very depths of my heart. I can’t begin to express how utterly amazed and blown away I’ve been by incredible response. Again, I thank you all for the endless support, the kind words, and for never failing to put a smile on my face or brighten my day._

_Alas, I fear I can leave you with little more, aside from the knowledge you are all probably in possession of the same oddball sense of humor as myself. While that is immensely relieving on my behalf (apparently I’m not THAT crazy), I’m not sure if the prospect is nearly as thrilling for you…_

_:)_

_~ Thank You ~_

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_Until next time: Happy Reading! :)_


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